


Brightly and Burning

by pterodactyldrops



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Withdrawal, Romance, Self-Doubt, Slow Build, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 72,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactyldrops/pseuds/pterodactyldrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brynn Trevelyan could think of a hundred good reasons why she shouldn't have been the one to survive the Conclave. </p><p>Commander Cullen can think of a hundred more, but his annoyance turns to admiration for the woman who fumbles through her decisions and yet becomes the leader they all needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Three years. Three years Cullen had stayed in Kirkwall after the city was half-destroyed by the beginnings of the Mage Rebellion. He had stayed there when so many had left, trying to piece together the broken parts of the splintered city. There’d been no Circle, barely any Templars left, and despite all that he’d never seen as many demons in Kirkwall as he had the past three days standing near the ashes of the Conclave.

It had been three restless days since the Conclave exploded. Three days and how many dozens of lives lost? And for what? For him to clear a _path_?

Cullen crushed the message in his hands that had arrived by raven from Sister Leliana, then tossed it dismissively in to one of the makeshift camp fires of the Forward Camp.

He hadn't had much hope that the raven would bring good news, but he thought surely Leliana would have written something more. Every day had been more hellish than the last and it was getting harder to keep hope alive.

When they—Seeker Cassandra, Sister Leliana, and Josephine Montilyet--had received word that the Conclave had exploded, that the Temple Sacred Ashes no longer stood on the mountainside, that everyone who had been present at the talks had died…well, Cullen was used to expecting the worst since Kirkwall, but the reports of destruction that Leliana’s scouts had brought back gave even him pause. The only way Cullen had managed to keep the barely contained chaos from spilling over in to anarchy was to grab what loyal people he could and march up the Frostback Mountains towards the rift that had opened in the sky.

He had been trying to hold this position ever since—this camp located closest to what was left of the Temple. Their nights were filled with the otherworldly, high pitched screams of demons and the days ached with the moans of good people dying. Their camp was, Cullen would admit if pressed, positioned very poorly strategically. They couldn't hold out much longer. It had been his intention to give the order to abandon the camp. He would be giving that order right now if it hadn't been for the raven that Sister Leliana had sent.

He could scarcely believe the words Leliana had written in her curling cursive. _We have a plan. Clear a path for Seeker Cassandra._

A plan. A path. Cullen wanted to hope that they had found a solution, but after three days of watching people die again, again, and again he knew it would be a struggle for those left behind to run once more towards the Breach. It would be a struggle for him to give the command.

But if they didn't move forward and if they didn't clear a path, what hope did this world have? The demons would spill forth from the rift that tore the sky open and blanket Thedas in darkness. One day there would be no where left to retreat.

So, it was with a heavy heart that Cullen unsheathed his sword, raised it high, and shouted the order to clear a path for their Seeker.

Cullen wasn't sure how long he had been fighting. His ears rang from the harsh sound of metal clashing against metal. His underarmour was soaked through with sweat, and his throat was caked in ashes. His shield arm felt weak from holding back so many oncoming blows. He was no stranger to fighting; if he felt this weak, he knew he must have been battling for a long time.

“Be weary, another Fade rift,” a voice said behind him. Cullen knew who its owner was: Solas. He was the apostate elf who had wandered into their camp shortly after the Conclave was destroyed. Leliana had insisted on keeping him nearby, claiming he could be a valuable source of information. Cullen and Seeker Cassandra had both argued keeping the apostate close was a poor idea—it seemed foolish to have an unknown Mage in the midst of their camps when the Fade was torn open. But they were desperate, and the elf was the only person who seemed to have any idea what was going on with the prisoner who had survived the Conclave.

Besides, Cullen thought wryly, weren't all Mages apostates now?

“How many rifts are there?!” He heard another voice exclaim. Cullen snorted despite the situation. One rift was one too many, who cared how many there were beyond that?

He turned his head to respond, took his eyes off of the demon not fifteen feet in front of him, and in that second he knew he had made a grave mistake.

It served him right, he guessed. There was no place for witty remarks in the middle of a battlefield. He heard the screeching of one of those blasted despair demons right beside him. Cullen knew that his only chance was to raise his shield with his now-weak arm and block the oncoming blow.

He braced himself, waiting. His heart beat once. Then twice. Then again, steadier now than before.

Cullen looked around, and saw in an instant an arrow hit its target, and heard the final shriek of the despair demon before it dissolved in front of his eyes.

“Good- _bye_!” Cullen heard a woman say, voice full of excitement and pride, from high above—but it wasn't Lady Cassandra’s voice.

“We must seal it if we are to get across!” The apostate elf said; Cullen had already raised his shield and was running forward, towards the rift in front of them all.

“Quickly then!” Cassandra said, following his lead, keeping pace beside him.

But before he and Cassandra could reach the rift, a small body with a mess of blond hair carelessly pushed past Cullen, knocking into his already sore shoulder. He hissed, but the person didn't stop. The small body headed straight, not deviating from the path towards the rift in front of them.

Cullen growled low in his throat. He hated leaving a soldier out with no protection, but he and Cassandra were surrounded. Cullen put his back to Cassandra’s, and she to his, and they both raised their swords to strike the oncoming demons.

But the blows never came. The demons’ haunting cries never met his ears. Instead, he heard a loud explosion coming from the direction of the rift, his skin prickled with static, and then every person was being showered in an eerie green light.

“Sealed, as before,” Solas exhaled. “You are becoming quite adept at this.”

Slowly, cautiously, not quite believing the fight was over, Cullen lowered his shield. He turned to Cassandra. “Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift.” The ghost of a smile started to appear on his face. “Well done.”

But Cassandra did not return the smile. Instead, she sighed, and nodded her head to the blond woman that was shuffling awkwardly not five feet behind her. “Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner’s doing.”

The prisoner stepped forward—the person Cullen had mistaken as a soldier before. Cullen would not have recognized the prisoner if Cassandra hadn't pointed her out. He hadn't paid her much attention when the soldiers brought her unconscious body into their camp three nights ago. He had been more concerned with organizing their ever-dwindling forces.

The prisoner slung her bow behind her back—she must have been where the arrow came from earlier. He watched her glance down at her left hand. It was glowing. Green. Like the rift. It seemed that the apostate elf’s outlandish theory had, in fact, been right—that if only the prisoner would wake up, maybe she could affect the rifts.

“Is it?” Cullen asked, eyeing the prisoner curtly. All of his soldiers lost today, all the wounds inflicted, all to get this one person to the Breach? Under his gaze, he saw a flicker of uncertainty on her face. He pushed forward, “I _hope_ they’re right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here.”

The uncertainty he saw on her face hardened. She looked straight at him and replied, with a touch of defiance in her voice, “You’re not the only one hoping that.”

“We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?” Cullen replied, barely sparing her a glance as he began walking back to where the remainder of their soldiers stood. “The way to the Temple will be clear.”

Cullen looked at between Cassandra and the prisoner before turning back towards the forward camp. In younger days—maybe even in Kirkwall—he would have insisted on following them. Now, though, Cullen knew he would best serve his men by helping them pull back. “Maker watch over you.” His gaze shifted from Cassandra to the prisoner as he added, “For all of our sake’s.”

He wasn't sure whose eyes were on him as he grabbed one of his injured soldiers and helped him walk. He didn't care who was watching. At this point, it was more important to evacuate the camp and get those left behind to safety, fool's hope be damned.

_________________

_Well, he was cheerful_ , thought Brynn Trevelyan. She didn't dare speak the words out loud for fear of Cassandra’s reaction. Whether or not Brynn had the mark on her hand, it was clear that she was still a prisoner. Although probably not for long. For better or worse, if she didn't seal the Breach she wouldn't have a very long life ahead of her.

Brynn jumped over the battlements and landed on the ground without stumbling. Her worn leather boots absorbed the sound she ordinarily would have made. A puff of ashes rose from her feet. Maker, she hoped that those ashes hadn't belonged to someone.

Brynn heard three noises behind her. She wasn't sure when it had happened, but there was an unspoken rule that she always walked forward first. Maybe it was because she had the sharpest eyes—the eyes of an archer, the eyes of a scout—but Brynn guessed that the true reason was that the mark on her hand flared angry and green whenever another rift was near. It had become a dead giveaway that they would soon encounter a swarm of demons.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas said next to her, quiet and reverent.

Varric snorted. “Or what’s left of it.”

The last time Brynn had been here—had it really been three days ago?—the temple was a beautiful, old monument. It was filled to the brim with Templars, Mages, diplomats, and her fellow Chantry clerics. All of them had been discussing, talking, laughing, hopeful that something could be done to end the war with no end between the Templars and Mages.

It had been the first time since the Circles broke away that Brynn had felt hopeful that something could be done to fix this mess. But all of that had changed with the explosion.

Or, well, Brynn  _guessed_  that had been when things had changed. She had been unconscious, after all. She awoke in shackles, to accusations that she had been the one to cause this…whatever  _this_  was. But most hurtful of all, she had awoken to the news that the excitement and hope that everyone had was shattered. The rebellion, the war—it wasn't over.

She had awoken to a world worse off.

“That,” said Cassandra, pointing in the distance to the green swirling mass, interrupting her thoughts, “That is where you walked out of the Fade, and our soldiers found you. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

“I wish I could remember,” Brynn said so quietly that she doubted any one could hear. She looked around at the bodies, frozen in an eternity of agony, and shivered. Did this body belong to a friend? Maybe a mentor from Ostwick’s Chantry? How was it that they were all dead, and that she alone survived?

A few more steps ahead, and before Brynn stood the towering Breach. “That’s a long way up,” Varric said, and Brynn nodded. She could hear whispers. They spoke of despair, destruction, and doubt. Oh, Andraste’s ass, how was she supposed to close this?

As if hearing her thoughts, Cassandra turned to her and said, “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

_Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter_ , Brynn thought desperately. Do not falter. Do _not_ falter.

Brynn took in a gulp of air, hoping that it would cover her hesitation. “I assume you have a plan to get me up there?”

They didn't. It wasn't really needed, after all. Brynn found that when she stood under the Breach, she could reach up, and grab the little bit of Fade that she searched for, and pulled and pulled until she felt resistance. And then with one last tug, she felt something rip apart, and through that angry scar out stepped a Pride Demon.

Brynn had never seen a Pride Demon before. Certainly no one she knew in Ostwick’s Chantry had laid their eyes on one. She had read about them while studying to take her vows, but never in her wildest dreams did she think that she would actually come face to face with one.

Brynn ran. It was her first instinct. She tore across the battlefield. The Seeker Cassandra headed in the opposite direction, towards the demon. Brynn took up the highest position she could find, pulled an arrow from her quiver, and began firing as though her life dependent on it. Which, she thought, it conveniently did.  
  
“It’s too strong,” she saw more than heard Solas mouth at her. The sound of the demon’s growl, the lightning, and the Breach made it difficult to hear anything. “Use the rift to weaken it!”

Although her brothers told her otherwise, Brynn had always thought there was an advantage in being small and sprightly. She often times could slip between others without drawing too much attention. Granted, in the past, she had used his talent to outwit her brothers in play fights, to steer clear large game in her family’s holdings, or avoid talking to people at parties, but the theory was probably the same for slipping past a Pride Demon, right? Just don’t make eye contact, no wild movements, and step as silently as she could. Same concept, just a little bit of a bigger target. Oh Maker, she sure hoped it was the same concept.

It was all a useless point, anyway. Slipping past was her— _their_  only chance. Brynn knew that she was no warrior like Cassandra or like the gruff soldier Cassandra had been fighting next to on the battlefield. She couldn't take a hit like the stout dwarf Varric, and she certainly couldn't materialize a barrier like Solas. No, she had spent her whole life running away from the battlefield, finding weaknesses, and picking off those targets. She had spent her whole life doing the opposite of running head first in to danger.

But now was as good of a time as any to stop running away. And besides, if she didn't close this Breach there would never be anything else to run away from. Therefore, it was with only a moment’s hesitation that Brynn left Varric behind, ran at full sped towards the Breach, past the soldiers, past Cassandra, past Solas, and past the Pride Demon.

Brynn’s vision was obstructed by the green haze around her and she realized she couldn't even be sure that she was in the right place. She had never felt so blind before — and for an archer, being blind on the battlefield meant certain death. She closed her useless eyes tight and concentrated on the humming that ran through her body when she reached for the Breach. Even as she heard her new companions' cries of pain around her, no matter how much she wanted to run away, or find a spot to start firing arrows, she stayed under the Breach, trying to close the emerald mass above her. 

Closing the Breach felt different than opening it wider. Whenever she rose her glowing hand up, she tried to imagine that she was lining up pieces of ripped fabric back together. It was painful. Her hand shook. The more she struggled, the more she felt like her mind was coming apart, and the louder the whispers that spoke of failures and mistakes became. But she heard Cassandra yell out, “Now! Now! Seal the rift! Do it!” and Brynn knew she had to finish. She pushed as hard as she could in to the Fade, leaving behind any regard for her own safety and soul, felt those pieces of torn fabric line up, and then pulled back out with all of her might.

The last thing Brynn remembered was the sound of the rift exploding and warm air rushing over her, and then nothing.

_________________

“I understand your reasoning,” Cassandra said, “But it does not make sense for her to have opened the Breach.”

Cullen rubbed his temples. Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, and he had been hashing the same arguments out for the past hour, and it was doing nothing to improve the dull throb that had started on the back of his neck. Or his mood.

Leliana clasped her hands behind her back, surveying the room, addressing them all as though they were some useless dignitaries to be won over. “We all agree that it is convenient—”

“Or providence,” Cassandra interjected. Cullen only snorted, not bothering to cover the sound.

“—or  _providence_ ,” Leliana continued, “That she was there and the only survivor of the initial explosion. But it also stands that she stabilized the Breach at great risk to herself.”

Cullen looked at Leliana and laughed darkly. “What else was she going to do? Cassandra as much as told her if she didn't cooperate she would be executed. I’d rather take my odds with the Breach.”

Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head at him. “You weren't there when I questioned her. She had no idea that anyone had died. She was almost in tears—”

“That could just mean that her own agents were lost too,” Cullen argued back, slicing his hand through the air to punctuate his point. “Or perhaps she was upset about being caught at the scene of her crime.”

“She ran straight towards the Breach at the end,” Cassandra spoke, locking her eyes with Cullen’s, “Without fear. I have only seen a few people in my lifetime run towards certain death without fear. She knew she was our only hope, and she took that burden.”

Cullen frowned. This did not entirely mesh with his first impression of the uncertain prisoner, but Maker knew his impressions of people had been wrong before. Though, it was convenient that she had been the only one to survive, and now was their only means of closing the Breach.

“Whether she did or did not cause the Breach is immaterial at this point,” Josephine spoke up, her quill poised an inch away from her page, interrupting Cullen’s thoughts. “As of right now, she is unconscious. I suggest we hold off on making any official statements until she has awoken.”

Cassandra threw her hands up in the air. “And in the meantime? The soldiers stationed outside of her door have reported more people trying to break in. I do not know if it is because they want to meet her or do her harm. Her condition is worsening. We cannot sit by idly; we must do something.”

“Our resident Apothecium Adan has suggested that it might do well to have a Templar stationed with her,” Leliana said, her eyes glossing over to Cullen. “The mark on her hand is magic, although an unknown type.”

“No,” he answered immediately and firmly. “I have more important matters to attend to than be a glorified babysitter. Besides,” he added through gritted teeth, “I am not a Templar any more.”

“Would you rather the elf apostate sit with her?” Leliana asked.

“No—I mean, yes,” Cullen sighed. “It matters to me not.” He pushed his hands against the makeshift war table, letting the momentum carry him away from the group. “If this is all we have to discuss, I need to leave to gather reports from my lieutenants.”

“But we still haven’t decided—” Josephine began.

“I’m sure whatever message you craft, Ambassador, will not need my input,” Cullen said, and strode out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Silence. Much needed silence. Cullen felt that throb on his neck start to ebb away as he walked through the Chantry hall. His tired legs carried him through the towering doors and out in the crisp night air. When did it get so dark? He could have sworn when he went in to discuss the situation with the prisoner that it had still been light out.

He sought to walk towards the tents where he and the other soldiers were camped, but his ears prickled. He could hear two low voices speaking to one another in hurried whispers.

“If she is the Herald, I want to get a look at her,” Cullen overheard someone say. He growled—rest would have to wait. He turned his feet, and began walking towards the source of the sounds

“ _If_  she is, we shouldn't disturb her,” another voice answered. “The Maker would not be pleased.”

“Forget the Maker, she’s just another prisoner.” Cullen’s pace quickened. “I want to get a look at her. She’s unconscious; no one will care.” He was now jogging, his armor clanking awkwardly as he maneuvered between the cabins spotting Haven, trying to find the source of the voices.

_There_. Cullen caught sight of a door opening, and light flooded the pathway. The two men who had been talking looked at one another, making to take a step in to the room, but not before Cullen rounded the corner and barked, “That will be enough.”

“C-Commander,” stuttered one of the soldiers, jumping away from his companion. “We were—we were—”

Cullen held up one hand. The gesture silenced them. “Names.” When they hesitated, he added, in the voice he had become adept at using as Knight-Commander after Meredith fell, “ _Now_!”

“William,” answered one. “Smithy,” answered the other. One of them opened their mouth again to give some excuse, but Cullen would have none of it.

Cullen crossed his arms over his chest. “Report to the lieutenant immediately. Tell them that Commander Cullen has released you from duty tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll discuss your discipline for the atrocious lack of honor you have shown.”

The two soldiers nodded and walked away from Cullen. He would have to monitor the new recruits more closely. They could not afford to allow just any one to join their ranks, especially if they were as undisciplined as this. Prisoner or Herald, Cullen didn't care. He would not have men and women under his command who he could not trust, who could not follow basic instructions such as _do not disturb the prisoner._

Cullen thought about turning around to find two other soldiers to replace the ones he had lost, but he could not leave the prisoner here unguarded. As if answering his thoughts, he heard a strangled moan come from the room.

Heaving a sigh, Cullen walked in to the cabin. “Glorified babysitter indeed,” Cullen muttered, closing the door behind him, and crossing the room in two long strides. He had intended to sit next to the window and avoid looking at the prisoner, but he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eyes and the pitifulness of her made him pause.

The prisoner (Or Herald, he guessed he was supposed to start calling her) was a tangle of bed sheets, blankets, and pillows. Even though the fire in the room was roaring hot he could see sweat glistening on her skin. She was shivering.

It was obvious to him that she was in some kind of pain. He had seen enough Templars fighting infections in Kirkwall, when there had been no Mage healer to mend them, to recognize this sort of deep pain immediately. She cradled her hand against her body, doubled around it, as though even in her sleep she was hiding it. Every few moments the cabin lit up with a green light that was the same shade as the rift’s in the sky.

Her mouth opened, and a small, painful mew escape from her lips. Cullen shivered. Yes, she definitely was in an enormous amount of pain. His eyes drifted to her parted lips—they were red, chapped, and raw. He could see where they had bled from her biting them too hard in her sleep, from trying to work through the pain that was coursing through her body even as he stood next to her.

Her cheekbones were high, just like many of the nobles he had met before. And her skin was eerily pale. She probably had never had to work a day in a field or march halfway across Thedas on some noble’s orders. The green light issuing from her hand made her skin look sickly.

Her hair, he realized, wasn't white but instead was the lightest shade of blond he’d ever seen. She had it in practical braids, held tightly against her skull. It was beginning to come undone in places from all of her thrashing.

“Grey,” he heard her whisper. He took an uncertain step closer. “Grey--so many eyes.” Cullen’s brow furrowed, and then suddenly she opened up her eyes. She stared ahead, unseeing.

Her eyes—Maker, her eyes made him catch his breath. They were deep set, heavy lidded, and almost completely devoid of color. He couldn't decide if they were the grey, blue, or ice. He’d never seen anything like them before. Coupled with her skin and her hair, the effect made her look like the Breach had drained all warmth and light out of her, leaving behind a paragon of death and despair.

He watched as she shivered pitifully again. “Fever dream,” Cullen murmured to himself. He kneeled down next to her bed. He wasn't sure what possessed him—it was probably pity for this poor creature—but he reached out a hand to pull one of her blankets over her body.

“I couldn't—” a strangled cry came from her throat. Cullen let his hands drop by his side, feeling completely useless. “I couldn't — where do they go?” Her eyes opened again, but instead of staring past him, the prisoner looked straight at him. The fearful look on her face softened for a moment, replaced with sadness.

“I’m sorry,” he heard her say, “I’m sorry that I couldn't be faster.”

What was she talking about? Surely she wasn't referring to all the men they lost on the battlement that day to clear her way to the Breach? He had berated her in his mind, damned the fact that she took three days to wake up, and in that time they had lost so many good men and women. But whatever harsh words he had thought about her, Cullen had thought worse about himself. He’d been the one giving the orders after all.

“It’s—it’s all right,” Cullen said uncertainly. He reached out to her hot skin, went to touch her cheek, but stopped himself short. He let his hand trail up further, and found himself brushing some of the hair that had come loose from her braid, that now clung to her sweaty skin, away from her face.

“Just—sleep,” he ordered, clearing his throat, trying to regain some control over the situation. He repeated again in his low, commanding voice, “Sleep.”

He could have sworn the prisoner nodded, but it could have just as easily been another tremor of pain riding through her body. Cullen grabbed a wooden log nearby and threw it on the fire. He settled down in the chair next to the prisoner’s bed, resigned to waiting for the next group of soldiers to take watch.

Maybe Cassandra had been right. Maybe it was providence that she was here, and not coincidence. Had the Maker heard all of their cries when the Conclave exploded? Had Andraste actually sent them her Herald? He wasn't sure, but he allowed himself to hope for but a moment.


	2. Chapter 2

_She was running. Running, twisting, turning, and then she was tripping. She was falling, scratching, and scraping her hands painfully on jagged, black rocks. There was a clicking noise. A hissing noise. A spitting noise. It made the deepest recesses of her soul shake. She looked behind her and a dozen grey eyes looked back, crawling, dragging, swarming towards her—_

Brynn woke without air in her lungs.

She gasped, blindly reaching for the glass of water she always kept on her nightstand. Her hand groped air. She rolled out from under the covers and had to grab her bed frame when her large bed abruptly stopped short. This room wasn’t hers. Everything was off. The bedsheets were itchy against her skin, nothing like the soft cotton at Ostwick. This bed…this bed wasn’t hers.

She opened her eyes slowly gazed at the walls. They weren’t plaster. They weren’t stone. They were wood. Her hand sparked painfully, and Brynn winced. Ah, yes. For a blissful moment she had almost forgotten what had happened.

At least she was alive. She supposed that she had to thank the Maker for that. Her life was more than what anyone else at the Conclave had.

A crash caused her to stare at the door, and before her was a nervous elf. “I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

“Why are you frightened?” Brynn asked. Did she not stabilize the Breach? Was she still under suspicion? She looked at her hands—she wasn’t in shackles any more. That had to be a good sign, right?

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing,” the elf said. Why would anyone want _her_ blessing? Yesterday Brynn had been a prisoner carted from camp to camp. It was only dumb luck that she was even here. Surely she had misheard the elf.

“You are back in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.” Brynn glanced down at the mark. Yes, it was still there. And yes, Andraste preserve her, it was still painful. But it certainly hadn’t grown since last time she used it. “It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.”

Wait a tic. She had been unconscious. Again. Brynn felt sick to her stomach. What had she missed in three days? Last time she was out for that length of time a whole diplomatic negotiation had literally exploded.

“I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you were awakened. She said, at once.” Brynn stood up from the bed and winced. Too fast. She had stood up too fast and now she was dizzy and queasy and the world swam in front of her.

She took a shuddering breath, trying not to tip over as she grabbed for the clothes the elf had left behind for her. Her hands trembled and she closed the buckles on the front of her coat. Maybe Cassandra would keep to her word and there would be a trial. Or maybe there wouldn't be a trial. Her hands slipped clumsily over the fastening. Maybe she would be executed immediately.

_Whatever happens_ , she thought desperately, _at least I stopped the Breach from expanding. They may still think that I am responsible, and who am I to say that I’m not when I don’t remember anything? But at least I tried to make it right._

Squaring her shoulders one last time, Brynn reached forward and pushed the door of her cabin open.

She was met by two guards, flanking either side of the stone stairs, and a large crowd that stared at her, wide-eyed. Was it wonder she saw on their faces or fear? Brynn was uncomfortable with both.

“That’s her,” she heard someone say as she took an uncertain step forward, “That’s the Herald of Andraste."

Brynn tried push the well of questions bubbling up in her to the back of her mind and forced her way through the crowds, stumbling as she willed her weak legs to move faster than they were able to. Haven’s Chantry towered in the distance and Brynn headed towards the familiar landmark. Had the Conclave really been barely a week ago? She remembered riding past the town of Haven with the others from Ostwick. That felt like another lifetime.

Brynn slowed her pace as she neared the Chantry, and began walking clumsily towards the back. She could hear angry voices echoing through the empty building.

“She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately to be tried by whoever is elected the new Divine. For all you know, she intended it this way.” Brynn hesitated in front of the door at the end of the Chantry, stopping for a moment.  
  
“I do not believe that.” Brynn’s breath caught in her throat. That was the voice of Cassandra. Cassandra had been the person to put her in chains. If Cassandra thought that she was innocent, that she did not start this terrible event, then maybe there were others who thought the same.

Brynn reached for the handle of the door, but not before it flung open on its hinges and out walked a very cross looking cleric. He huffed when he saw her, disgust on his face. To think, naught but a week ago, Brynn might have looked up to him and sought his approval.

She tentatively poked her head through the open door. Cassandra sighed deeply and motioned her forward with a hand. Sister Leliana slammed a book on the table in front of Brynn. She jumped.

“This is the Divine’s directive,” Leliana explained. “She wanted us to rebuild the Inquisition of old, find those who will stand against the chaos. We have no leader, no numbers, and no Chantry support.”

“We will do these things with or without the Chantry’s approval,” Cassandra said wearily. “We have no choice. We must act.”

Brynn listened to the two women, massaging the mark on her hand. Was this where they would discuss her trial? Or would it be a swift death? The mark on her hand flared painfully, and Brynn dug her fingernails in to the skin of her palm.

“Well?” Cassandra asked impatiently.

Brynn looked up. Oh. They were both staring at her. Had they been talking to her? She cleared her throat, but it did nothing to stop the shake in her voice. “Are you—are you asking for my help?”

“We must close the Breach. We must find those responsible,” Cassandra repeated, eyes narrowed.

“And—” Brynn looked down at her green hand, “And I’ve got the only way to close the Breach, don’t I?”

" _Yes_ ," Cassandra answered immediately. She released the fist she had been making with her hand. "Have you not been listening to a word we've said?"  
  
"Sorry," Brynn stumbled out. "It's—this is not what I pictured when I woke up this morning."

Cassandra narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but Leliana put a calming hand on the other woman's forearm. "Help us fix this," Leliana said to Brynn. "Help us before it's too late."

Brynn thought back to those ashes in front of the Temple, forever doubled over in pain and agony. She pictured all the bodies laid out at the Forward Camp, all of those people who died trying to clear a path to the Breach for her. It was already too late for those people, and Brynn prayed that Andraste guided them on the path through the Fade.

But there were those who still lived, who still breathed, just like she did. If she didn’t close the other rifts appearing across Thedas, how much longer would that be the case? If she did not at least try to stop more death, wouldn’t their blood be on her hands?

An armored hand appeared in front of Brynn's own. The fist Cassandra had been making relaxed. Her hand extended. Open. Waiting for Brynn to take it. 

She gripped the Seeker's hand and shook it with more confidence than she felt.

_________________

“We are truly doing to this?” asked Josephine.

Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen were all seated around their makeshift war table. There were half-unrolled maps of Ferelden, held down by mismatched paperweights of rocks and books and armored gauntlets. There were piles of parchment with hastily written and then scratched out notes. Half burned down candles surrounded them.

But all eyes in the room were trained on the book that laid on top of the center of the table, the book with the mark of the Inquisition embossed on its surface.

“I suppose we are,” Cullen replied, watching Leliana purposefully walk out to alert whatever few allies they had. He turned his gaze on Cassandra. “You are certain the prisoner will help us? She had the look of someone who will run away at the earliest moment.”

Cassandra shook her head at Cullen. “I believe the _Herald_ will. She…seems to understand that she is our only means of closing the rifts."

“Oh, it’s Herald now, not prisoner?” Cullen stood up. "I should go alert our forces. I imagine there will be more people flocking towards our gates after Leliana sends her ravens.”

“Wait,” Josephine said hurriedly, “The Herald is waiting outside. I thought it best for the people of Haven to see us standing together. They need to know that we are united and we trust her.”

“I don’t know if I would go that far,” Cullen murmured under his breath, but he followed Cassandra and Leliana out of Chantry all the same.

The prisoner—no, the _Herald_ , Cullen corrected himself—was waiting outside the Chantry next to Leliana. It looked like Leliana was trying to discuss something important with her, but the Herald’s eyes kept drifting back towards the Breach in the distance, distracted.

“Herald,” Cassandra said, stepping up next to her. Cullen saw a look of relief appear on the Herald’s face and it made him frown. She looked different than she did that night in the cabin. Still pale, yes, and still tired. But the pain on her face seemed to ease when she looked at Cassandra. It was as though she was drawing strength from the older woman. 

The prisoner turned her strange eyes to Cullen. His feet suddenly felt too big for his legs and he stumbled. She turned away quickly, hands clasped behind her back. He forced himself to stride to the open space next to her, steady, and determinedly looked out on the crowd.

It felt dishonest to stand next to her, to present this image of a Herald surrounded by trusting advisors when he felt uncertain of this hesitant girl. He noticed her eyes kept on looking towards the Breach. Every time they did, she flexed her left hand behind her back. Did it hurt her? He did not envy her possession of the mark, but he did worry that it should have been bestowed on someone more useful, someone stronger.

“Your Herald of Andraste,” Josephine announced. The crowd was quiet. They stared at the Herald, and Cullen felt her shift her weight from foot to foot next to him.

This was going _great_ already.

And then the Herald did something that surprised him. He saw her step forward, towards the crowd, and away from her advisors.

“I—” Her voice faltered, and Cullen cringed. But remarkably, she took another deep breath of air and started again. “I know that we are all uncertain about the future,” she unclasped her hands behind her back and held them at her side. “But-but I believe that will find those responsible for _this_ ,” she nodded her head towards the Breach. As if thinking better, she then rose her hand, the one with the mark that was issuing green light, and pointed at the Breach, “And we _will_ close the Breach. I can promise you that I will not stop until I see that rift closed.”

It was short and to the point. It wasn’t spoken with confidence, it wasn’t a rousing speech that left others breathless, but as Cullen looked out towards the crowd he saw relief on their faces.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Josephine said, smiling. “A good message, Herald,” she added approvingly, “I may use some of your words to craft our message to the nobility.”

“And I need to send more ravens,” Leliana said, stepping away.

“Wait,” Cassandra interjected, “I believe we should discuss our plans with the Herald. I do not want everything to pin on getting her to the Breach again.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Cullen heard the Herald murmur next to him, and he snorted loudly. She looked over at him with her ice colored eyes, curious. His throat felt tight, but Cullen forced himself to stare back at her, meeting her gaze, not daring to blink.

He was relieved to find that she looked away first.

_________________

“I hope that was all right,” Brynn said to Varric later, watching her advisors walk back in to the Chantry. “I—it's just—it seemed like someone needed to say _something_. I didn’t want to just stand up there like some trophy. I’m sure it doesn’t match the speeches in your books,” she added hastily.

Varric smiled. “My books are fiction...well, mostly fiction. As far as impromptu speeches go, yours wasn’t the worst I’ve heard.”

Brynn returned the dwarf’s smile. “It’s all rather unusual for me. I’m the youngest of my family, so it’s not as though I was ever expected to make any grand proclamations.”

Varric looked around, before asking, “So, now that Cassandra is out of earshot, are you holding up all right?” Brynn shrugged, the smile on her face becoming stiff. “I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

“I’m just glad I’m still standing after all that,” Brynn said, trying to sound surer of herself than she felt.

“I still can’t believe you survived Cassandra,” Varric said, and Brynn laughed. The sound echoed off of the cabins nearby. “You’re lucky that you were out cold for most of her frothing rage. For days now, we’ve been staring at the Breach watching demons and Maker knows what fall out of it. Bad for morale would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

“I’m still not sure I believe any of this is really happening,” Brynn confessed. She held out her hand and flexed it, watching the emerald scar.

“You might want to consider running,” Varric said, his voice suddenly serious. Brynn met his eyes. How could he know that she had been thinking that earlier? “I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere — I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

“I think the time for running has passed,” Brynn admitted, closing her hand. “Besides, like you said, I wouldn’t be able to survive Cassandra if I ran away.”

“She’s pretty adept at finding people who want to stay hidden. She found me, after all,” Varric said. “Speaking of which, you better go meet her at the Chantry before she starts searching for you.”

“Thanks,” Brynn said. After a moment, she added, “For…for _this_ ,” she gestured to the fire pit and to him.

“Herald, I’m flattered,” Varric laughed. “Now go before the Seeker seeks you out!”

Cassandra met her at the entrance of the Chantry. They walked through together, as Cassandra explained what their plans were for the mark on her hand.

“What harm could there be in powering up something we barely understand?” Brynn asked sarcastically. She felt like she was being swept up in events, but the time for running had passed, and she had promised the town of Haven that she would do everything she could to close the Breach.

“Hold on to that sense of humor,” Cassandra warned, before opening the door where the Inquisition’s advisers were.

“You’ve met Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition forces.”

The first time Brynn had seen the Commander she had assumed that he was some lieutenant out in the field who was familiar with Cassandra. She had been too busy trying pierce the demons around them with her arrows, then closing the rift, to pay too much attention.

Thinking back to that day, though, there were two memories about the man in front of her that came to mind. The first was how he stared her down and let her know under no uncertain terms that clearing her way to the Breach had cost a lot of lives. Which she had known. She’d known it the second she had walked past all of the bodies laid out in front of the Forward Camp. She hadn’t needed him to twist that knife deeper into her soul.

But the second memory she had of him was the one that gave her pause. Brynn remembered watching the Commander hook his arm under the shoulder of one of the soldiers with a gentleness she would not have expected from someone clad in full armour. She remembered how he had hobbled with the man back to the safety of the camp. He had been so determined to not leave any person behind.

She was glad that someone who showed so much care and thoughtfulness for his forces would be the Commander of the Inquisition soldiers.

“It was only for a moment on the field,” The Commander’s deep voice broke through her thoughts, and she looked at him. He added stiffly, “I am pleased you survived.”

Pleased that _she_ survived or pleased that the person carrying the mark survived? Weren’t those two things quickly becoming one and the same? Brynn opened her mouth to quip that she was pleased she survived as well, but was cut off by the introductions of the Ambassador and Spymaster.

“That’s an impressive bunch of titles,” Brynn said once the introductions were over. She glanced around the table. Josephine had a warm look in her eyes. Leliana stood stoically with her hands clasped behind her back. Commander Cullen was—well, that was a surprise. Brynn could see a small, lopsided smile on the face of the Commander.

While Cassandra and Leliana discussed how to power the mark on her hand, Brynn took a moment to examine each of her advisers. It was a habit left over from before she had decided to join the Chantry, back when her parents were convinced she would grow in to some graceful noblewoman. She remembered how during the endless parties that she tried to avoid, she would rather listen and scan the faces of others, and search for the real meaning behind their words, less she say something exceedingly embarrassing and be lectured by her family later.

Although Brynn tried to give each of her advisers the same amount of attention, her eyes kept on drifting back towards the Commander directly in front of her. She told herself that she was drawn to him because he was the most imposing figure in the room, strength hidden behind layers of metal and leather, and not because he kept on throwing her skeptical glances every time she opened her mouth to make a comment.

He stood at least a head taller than her, and Brynn noticed that he often flexed his hand around the hilt of his sword. Perhaps it was meant to be threatening. Maybe it would have been if Brynn hadn’t spotted he did it every time he made a suggestion. It seemed more like a nervous habit.

Brynn’s eyes drifted and dragged up the length of his armour, careful not to pause too long at any particular spot. The cloth wrapped around him was Templar in origin—she would recognize that emblem from anywhere, considering that a good quarter of her relatives were Templars, including one of her brothers.

Her light colored eyes continued upwards, and she saw the tension in his neck when Leliana suggested they approach the rebel Mages for help. Ah, so he didn’t wear the armour, but he seemed to still be a Templar through and through.

When he spoke the scar that cut across the stubble on his face (Maker, did this man even know how to shave?) and over his lips shifted. It was white, and looked like it had been deep before it healed. If was a Templar, she mused, how was it that a healer was not around who had enough skill to not leave a scar?

Finally, Brynn reached the Commander’s eyes, and knew in that moment she had been caught.

He looked directly at her, unflinching, challenging her, just _daring_ her to stare back. She found herself trying to gulp down air to replace what had vanished from her lungs. The emotions on his face were closed off. His brow was furrowed. He looked down at her with mistrust and doubt. But his eyes themselves? They were the warmest, brown color Brynn had ever seen. They were the shade of clay from a riverbed in Ostwick, or the dark mahogany of a tree growing on her family's estate, or the color of a bear's pelt and just as fierce. And Andraste preserve her, she felt like for a moment that she was falling in to those pools of muddied water.

“…and the Chantry has denounced you specifically,” Brynn heard Josephine say. Brynn was grateful for the distraction, and turned her head away from the Commander as fast as she could.

“That didn’t take long,” Brynn answered, trying to cover her nervousness with the first comment that came to mind.

“Shouldn’t they be busy arguing over who will be the next Divine?” The Commander asked. Brynn was sure that she imagined the same relief in his voice that she felt.

“The point is everyone is talking about you — the Herald of Andraste,” Leliana said, her arms crossed behind her back.

“That’s quite the title,” the Commander said. He turned those damned eyes on her. Brynn felt him watching her closely, judging her next move like she was a piece on a chess board. She forced herself to meet his eyes and to not shrink away. She was a _person_ , not a pawn. “How do you feel about that?”

“Well, I am in a room full of impressive titles. But it’s…a little unsettling,” she answered truthfully.

Brynn was rewarded by a laugh. “I’m sure the Chantry would agree.”

Brynn continued to listen to the orders of her advisers. It sounded like her chief responsibility was to make contact with the Mother Giselle—which Brynn was sure would go over _fantastic_. She always seemed to say the wrong words to the Mothers in Ostwick’s Chantry, despite having wanted to take Chantry vows.

Brynn was more than relieved when Cassandra announced that the meeting was over. There was a still a lot to decide, but her advisors agreed it could wait until the morning. Brynn turned on her heels to grab the handle of the door, but when she reached out she saw that the door was already open. The Commander was standing behind her, arm over her head, holding the door for her.

“I didn’t realize that Templars could be gentlemen too,” she quipped, allowing herself the smallest of glances at him before rushing out the room.

“Ah, I forgot,” he answered to her retreating back. She was sure he said it loud enough so she could hear, “Nobles aren’t polite just for the sake of it. They always have ulterior motives.”

You don’t always have to get the last word in, Brynn told herself. You don’t have to get the last word in. Don’t respond, don’t—

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Brynn said, sarcasm dripping from her voice, “I was being impolite? I didn’t realize that my manners were a requirement here.” She gasped and covered her mouth in fake modesty. “Do you think that the _literal hordes of demons_ will care if I use the right salad fork? Maker, what if they are _Orlesian_ demons?”

She heard Josephine giggle behind the Commander, and it made Brynn grin widely at the man in front of her, a little proud of her joke and expecting him to return it in kind.

But to her disappointment, he stared at her coolly, and said in a bored tone, “My apologies, Lady Herald. I didn’t realize that poor jokes and an ill-tempered attitude were side effects of falling out of the Fade.”

“Well, let’s be honest — just the ill-tempered attitude is a side effect,” Brynn said, grinning up at him. “The poor jokes are all courtesy of me.”

“You may need better material if you intend to close the Breach,” the Commander told her, not returning her smile. Her stomach lurched. He nodded to the two women standing behind him. “Call me if the situation changes. Or if the Herald says something somewhat amusing,” he added before walking away, “The former being the more likely outcome.”

Brynn felt laughter bubble up in her and she did nothing to contain it. Cassandra fixed her with a curious stare. “You shouldn’t tease him so,” she lectured her.

“I shouldn’t tease him?” Brynn gasped for breath. “Mister-Tell-Me-If-She-Says-Something-Amusing-I-Need-To-Remove-The-Stick-Wedged-Up-My—”  
  
“ _Herald_ ,” Cassandra hissed reproachfully.

“Fine,” Brynn murmured. Her shoulders slumped. She felt so out of place, like she had been tossed in to events much larger than her and was dangerously ill-equipped to handle it. She knew from the look on Cassandra’s face that she was not what she expected. Always the disappointment, Brynn thought, the bitterness creeping in to her thoughts

“He has a job to do, as do you,” Cassandra continued to tell her, and she got the distinct feeling that she was a child being chided by her parents. “You should consider this before you try to bait him again.”

“I would give her a little more credit than just trying,” Sister Leliana said quietly, brushing past the two of them.

And then somewhere behind her, she heard the smallest of giggles escape. She whipped her head around, and watched as their Ambassador, Josephine, fixed her with an open, warm smile.

All at once, Brynn’s heart lightened, and for a moment she thought maybe—just maybe—if these women were here to be the leaders, she wasn’t in completely over her head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the wonderful feedback, everyone! I really appreciate it.

Sleep had never found Cullen easily, and that was even before watching two Circles collapse around him.

In Haven, he drilled their new recruits on how to block with a shield properly until he knew their flaws almost as well as he knew his own. He ran his fingers over maps of Orlais and Ferelden so often that he had memorized exactly where their borders met one another. When Cullen closed his eyes, all he could see were carefully written reports on pale parchments.

Cullen focused on throwing himself in to his work with the same unquestioning, unwavering dedication that he had shown in Kirkwall. Work had helped him sleep then—but in Kirkwall he had that cool, sapphire blue liquid to make him whole.

Tonight, when he inevitably awoke, he stared at the strange shadows that danced around on the fabric of his tent. They looked like— _no_ , he told himself sternly. It was only the candle he left lit every night.

“Ferelden,” he repeated to himself, trying to relax in to his pillow, “Ferelden, not Kirkwall. Haven, not Kinloch Hold. Commander, not Templar. Not Knight-Commander.”

Somehow, repeating the words, these truths that he knew, helped the shadows become _only_ shadows once more.

Cullen threw his legs over his cot. No sunlight peeked through the edges of his tent but past ‘not morning yet’ he had no idea how truly late it was. He shrugged on his armor and strapped his sword to his side. Perhaps a walk in the night air would shake the remnants of tonight’s horrors from his mind. At the very least he could use this as an opportunity to check on the patrols that he and Leliana had agreed upon.

He began walking down the path away from Haven, absently nodding to any soldier he passed, not paying much mind to his direction. He let himself stray from the path.

Cullen’s usual preference was to  _not_ be left alone with his dark thoughts, but in the silence that surrounded him, his mind wandered from training schedules and requisition orders to the myriad of conundrums that didn’t make sense to him: how few reports he’d received on abominations despite the Circles collapsing, the way farmers and nobles alike flocked to Haven even though the Inquisition had no support from any legitimate organizations, and then to thoughts of their prisoner. Their  _Herald._

To say Cullen thought their Herald was frustrating was an understatement.

Their meetings in the War Room were an exercise in patience for him. She’d arrive late if they met in the morning, early if it was in the evening. She was a constant bundle of movement—either rocking on the balls of her feet, pushing hair that wasn’t even loose behind her ears, or—and this was Cullen’s least favorite part because it always seemed in time with the dull throb of his headache—drumming her fingers on the table. Her handwriting was so messy that Cullen had to strain his eyes just to make it out. And her _voice_ —Maker, she made the most unamusing jokes at inopportune times, breaking his concentrate when he had been counting exactly how many soldiers they needed for a particular mission and planning what they were to do with those left behind.

And before making any decisions, she’d look at Cassandra for a nod of approval.

It seemed Cassandra didn’t mind their Herald. Cullen could have sworn that Cassandra even liked the young woman’s company. Sometimes, in the middle of training the new recruits, Cullen could see the Herald pestering Cassandra as she hacked away at a dummy. He had almost jumped out of his skin Cassandra’s laughter rang around the training yard. When he’d looked over again, the two of them had been smiling at one another, cheeks red, and both breathless from some joke.

He’d realized it was the first time he had heard Cassandra laugh since the Conclave.

Leliana seemed cautious of their Herald. She mentioned that the Herald had asked after the Divine. But she also had said, with narrowed eyes, that the Herald was a naive, young girl for having stopped her from 'dealing' with one of their rogue spies. That had given Cullen pause—he couldn’t picture the hesitant Herald protesting an action their Spymaster had been prepared to take. It took a lot of courage to disagree with Leliana. Or stupidity. Probably the latter—Leliana usually knew what she was talking about when it came to their spies.

Josephine said that she liked the Herald—but then again, Josephine liked _everyone_. Even Cullen. He got the impression that when Cullen would glower at her from across the war table, Josephine was only waiting patiently for his grumpiness to subside.

But Josephine did have one complaint that she shared with Cullen. Apparently their Herald had said something very dismissive about Orlesian nobility in comparison to Free Marchers that Josephine thought was highly inappropriate because—well, to be honest, at that point, Cullen had stopped paying attention. But Josephine did look perturbed and it had surprised Cullen. Wouldn’t their Herald, a noble, be better equipped to dealing with her peers than what Josephine’s complaint suggested?

 _Be still_ , Cullen murmured to himself, eyes closing. The point of this walk had been to clear his mind. His thoughts wandered so easily without the lyrium. He supposed he should be grateful he wasn’t re-imaging his nightmares, but the Herald wasn’t exactly his favorite topic and—

Cullen felt weightless for a moment, then tripping head first. A broken tripwire tangled around his feet, and he had no time to stop his fall before he came crashing to the ground.

He should have stayed on the path.

“Yes, finally got—oh! Oh  _no_ ,” he heard a familiar voice say above him. Cullen groaned and rolled over, mud seeping in to his armor, and looked straight in to the eyes of their Herald. “Not  _you_ ,” she said, echoing his groan.

Typical. So infuriatingly, so absolutely typical. Was the Maker listening to his thoughts? Was this some kind of divine judgment for thinking poorly of Andraste's herald?

“Maker preserve me,” Cullen murmured darkly, closing his eyes. He let his head sink back in to the mud. Perhaps if he just laid here for a moment longer she would go away.

“Are you hurt?” The Herald asked, tentative.

Cullen opened one eye. She was still there.

“Only my pride,” Cullen responded, lifting himself in to a sitting position.

He saw her lips twitch before she replied, “I’m surprised to hear you still had some left.”

He growled at her.  _Self-assured, snarky scout_. “What are you doing here? Cassandra’s last report said you were staying in the Hinterlands. Not…whatever this is excursion is,” he gestured to the tripwire.

“We arrived back a few hours ago. I…” The Herald glanced down, and then looked back up. There was that moment’s hesitation he saw in her. He wondered if she always wore her emotions on her sleeve like this. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I would do some hunting.”

“Please tell me that you are not hunting my patrols,” Cullen drawled.

He went to stand up, but a slender hand appeared in front of his face. It was the hand without the mark. He hesitated for a moment, and then grabbed it with his own gloved hand, allowing her to help him to his feet. His breath hitched uncomfortably. Ever since he’d stopped taking lyrium, his body felt sensitive to every touch and movement.

“Of course not,” she replied promptly. She ducked down and gathered her now broken tripwire. “They’re too easy of prey.” She must have seen the dumbstruck look on his face, because she hastily added, “I was  _joking_. Are you always so serious?”

“I am always this serious.” He glowered at her. “What would possess you to set traps out here? Do you have concerns about the patrols? I can assure you--”

“Don’t worry, I’m not insulting your precious patrols, Commander,” she interrupted his lecture, rolling her eyes at him. “I have full faith in the sentries that you and Leliana set up.”

Well—well,  _fine._ He and Leliana had spent hours arguing over the best way to deploy their limited numbers. He was…pleased that someone had appreciated the hard work.

Cullen fidgeted and rubbed the back of his neck. There was mud there. He was going to need a wash after this. “Then what were you doing out here?”

“This hunter in the Hinterlands mentioned that some of the refugees were going hungry. I thought maybe,” she laughed and shook her head at her own words, “—well, you see, I usually am better at hunting game than this,” she gestured to the broken wire in her hand and the mud that covered Cullen. “I’ve never caught a man in my trap before,” she added, wiggling her eyebrows at him in exaggerated luridness.

He snorted.

“I thought I could be useful,” he heard finish under her breath so quietly that the words came out as a whisper.

Cullen had been ready to ignore her words but her last confession made him stop. She thought she could be useful? She was the  _Herald of Andraste_. She was the only way the Inquisition knew of closing rifts. Despite whatever Cullen thought of her personally, her mere existence was useful. “That is…admirable,” he admitted.

“Thank you. I think." The Herald adjusted the pack on her back, and Cullen heard the rustle of herbs and rocks inside of it.

“Were you also expecting to supply our whole army while you’re out here?” He asked, nodding towards her game bag. It looked like it was made out of practical and sturdy canvas, darkened with oil to make it weatherproof. There were holes forming on some of the frayed edges, worn through from use. It was the opposite of the velvet, embroidered, useless game bags he had seen most nobles carrying.

The Herald ducked her head, and smiled gingerly at him. “Well, it was mentioned to me that your soldiers are in need of better swords.”

Cullen felt as though this was the second time tonight that he had been surprised by their Herald. “But our scouts searched the area for a logging site already.”

She stuck her chin out proudly. “In case you hadn’t noticed,” she touched her fingers to one of the feathered arrows in the quiver strung across her back, “I  _am_  a pretty good scout.”

He hadn’t noticed. The only thing that Cullen had noticed about their Herald was the green mark on her hand. Wasn’t that what was important?

“Well, I’m—er, that is, the Inquisition is grateful for your work,” Cullen said formally.

“Thank you, Commander Cullen,” she replied, beaming up at him with a wide, unrestrained smile.

He tilted his heard to the side and examined her. Her breath came quick and she leaned forward when she talked. Her cheeks and nose were red from the cold. The look on her face was open, inviting, and honest. Out here in the night air, game bag slung across her shoulder, she seemed more like a real person and less like a tool to be used.

It occurred to him, staring at her, that he actually didn’t know her name. He whetted his lip before saying, “You know, I’ve been calling you prisoner—I-I mean, ‘Herald’ but it seems you have me at a disadvantage if you know my name.”

“We wouldn’t want our Commander at a disadvantage, would we? What a strategic nightmare.” Her eyes—her bright eyes that weren’t any particular color sparkled at him. “It’s Brynn Trevelyan.”

 _There was no word for heaven or for earth, for sea or sky,_ the Chant of Light echoed in Cullen’s head, and made him shiver. This…he should not be thinking of the Chant while staring down at her crossly.

“Brynn,” he tested, letting it roll off of his tongue. He could see their breath mingle together in the cold night. He cleared his throat. “Lady Trevelyan it is, then.”

“Well, I suppose if you want to be formal on me, you can call me that,” she laughed. He watched her scramble up the rock that had been her lookout point before he fell in to her trap. “But honestly, the only people who call me Lady Trevelyan are Josephine or my parents when I’ve done something to make them particularly annoyed. Actually,” she paused and screwed up her face, nose wrinkled, lips pursed, “Come to think of it, the same could be said about Josephine.”

“Lady Trevelyan,” he repeated firmly as though drawing a line in the sand. Or mud as it were. It would not do well for others to see him be so informal with their lady Herald. And he didn’t want to be. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the archer perched on her rock.

“Mm,” he heard her say. She was laying on her back now, the cold stone pressed against her, staring up at the sky. “That  _does_ sound nice.”

“You are unforgiving,” he told her sternly. Her reply was a loud, unabashed laugh that despite the cold made Cullen feel warm underneath his armor.

“Would you like to see something?” She asked suddenly, lifting her head from the rock she was laying on. Cullen frowned at her suspiciously. “Oh, don’t give me that look—I’m not hiding any caltrops or poisoned knives up here.”

When he continued to hesitate, she rolled on her stomach and peered down at him. “It will require you to climb up this rock. I don’t know if a fancy Templar such as yourself can make it with your heavy armor, though.”

Did she think that he was so simple? That he would do what she said just because she issued a challenge?

“I am no longer a Templar,” he growled, easily climbing the rock that she was perched. He choose to ignore the smirk on her face.

“Impressive,” she cooed at him, sitting up, but he could see in the moonlight that she was also rolling her eyes. “I didn’t think they taught rock climbing to young Templars in training.”

“And what would you know of Templar training?” He asked her, settling down next to her on the rock.

There was a moment of silence and Cullen was surprised that she did not answer. Instead, he saw her chew her bottom lip, considering. Whatever she had been thinking about though, she refused to say. She reached out and pointed westward, where there was a cluster of lights.

“Haven,” he said quietly, following her line of sight.

“Yes,” she answered, nestling her head on her hands. “You can see the whole town from here. There’s the tents, the trebuchets, to the east is the bridge, and the Breach is up above everything…”

“Well, Lady Trevelyan,” he said, turning to face her. He could see her profile against the night sky—her brow was broad, her nose sharp and angular, and she had high cheekbones that did not deviate. But her lips—her bottom lip stuck out slightly, as though her constant chewing had caused it to swell, or that she pouted too often, or that she had yet another impertinent question on the tip of her tongue.

She wasn’t what Cullen would call pretty but she wasn’t _unpleasing_ —and at the thought he immediately felt cold. It was an unkind thought, to sit here and judge her appearance. It didn’t matter what she looked like. Her actions, the mark—that’s what mattered.

He turned his eyes away from her an focused on the town of Haven. Lights dotted the landscape. All of those lives…he wondered why she liked this spot. Was it because she could see every soul that depended on the Inquisition? He would have thought that the feeling would be paralyzing for her. He would admit that he found the weight of that responsibility difficult in Kirkwall, with all the Templars and Mages looking to him for guidance after the fall of Knight-Commander Meredith. Some days, even though their forces were small, he found it overwhelming in Haven.

He hoped the Inquisition could do some good in this world. He hoped that Casandra, Leliana, Josephine, and himself could mitigate some of the destruction around them. If he didn't hold on to that hope, what was the point in him leaving Kirkwall? What was the point in ceasing lyrium?

He closed his eyes. If he thought about it hard enough, he could still taste the sweet, blue liquid in his mouth. He could remember how it cooled his tongue, how he could feel it drip down the back of his throat. He could remember how it spread throughout his body, calming him, centering him, making him whole again.

He took in a shaky breath and opened his eyes. A pair of eyes stared back at him. Had their Herald been watching him? She chewed her bottom lip, and he saw her heavily lidded eyes lower. They focused on his face, tracing the scar on his lips and  then up to his eyes.

“I suppose,” he cleared his throat, shifting his body beneath his armor, “You are as excellent of a scout as you claim.”

“Commander,” she said, voice light and lilting while she pretended to fan herself, “ _That_  is most certainly the sort of compliment that would make me blush.”

“I should leave,” he said suddenly, standing up. If one of the patrols walked by and saw them, surely someone would get the wrong idea. He did not want  _that_  sort of rumor to begin spreading.

“Would you like me to escort you back to camp?” She asked, following him down the rock. He noticed that her movements were more precise than his. She landed on the ground next to him with hardly a sound, whereas by comparison he felt awkward and loud in his armor.

“What?” he asked incredulously. “No—I mean, shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“You were the one who got caught in a trap, not me,” she replied. Her eyes were sparkling again and she was making fun of him. _Good_ , he needed to avoid whatever that silence was earlier. “Besides, you did say that I was an excellent scout. Maybe the Templar needs an escort back to avoid all the wild nugs on the trail?”

“Again, I am no longer a Templar,” he growled at her. He was upset see that this only caused her to smile wider. “I will see you tomorrow in the War Room,” he told her. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Good-night,” before striding off.

“Good-night!” he heard her call to his retreating back.

__________________

It was another week before Brynn returned to Haven again.

She had been at Fallow Mire, where countless undead littered the water. Cassandra had said a short prayer under her breath for every fallen person that they passed. Brynn avoided any puddle that looked even remotely connected to the swamp around them, and it had nothing to do with the fact that she could barely swim. And the rifts—Andraste preserve her, there had been so many rifts that had needed closed. Solas seemed fascinated, but Brynn was relieved when it was time to leave.

Despite her companions’ invaluable help, there had been more than a couple of close calls. She’d probably have broken bones instead of bruises if it hadn’t been for Solas’s barriers, and Cassandra had rushed to her rescue a half a dozen times when Brynn had found herself backed in to a corner. It had been embarrassing for Brynn—her archery skills had grown soft when she’d decided to take Chantry vows, and she did not want to be a burden on her new companions.

Brynn grabbed her quiver, filled it with arrows, and strung it across her back. Her longbow was almost as tall as her, and as she headed towards the practice range, she smiled a little to herself thinking of how she had seen men twice as strong as her struggle to properly use a bow of this size. At least she wasn’t _completely_ useless.

She walked past the makeshift stables on her left, stopping for a moment to nuzzle one of the horses there. She breathed in the scent deeply—it was familiar and comforting when most everything on this mountainside was strange to her. The cold, biting snow was nothing like the mild winters she was used to in Ostwick. The towering mountains were the opposite of the plains, riverbeds, and little creeks that ran towards the sea back home.

But  _this_  felt like a little piece of home. The scent of the stables. The taste of stout beer in the tavern. The sound of the Commander barking orders at recruits. He was red faced and yelling. It reminded her of how her brothers were chastised when they missed a shot that she easily made when they were all younger.

Brynn left the stables and took a position in front of the archery range. She planted her feet firmly on the ground, spread apart. She reached behind her and wrapped her fingers around the first arrow she felt. With practiced movement, she hitched the arrow against the bow. She rose the long bow to position, breathed in, pulled back, and released. It was almost like closing the rifts, she mulled, as her fingers found another arrow. When she reached in to the Fade, it was like grabbing an arrow from her quiver. Lining up the shot was like trying to line together the fabric of the Fade. And when she let go of her arrow, she held her breath, just like when she tried to pull the Veil back together.

After a few shots, Brynn grew bored of the simple target practice and began looking out across the frozen lake for new prey. In the distance, she spotted the bridge that she had once crossed as a prisoner. Placed on the bridge were some torches and a few flag poles. If Brynn squinted, she could just barely make them out.  _Perfect_ , she thought, as she hitched another arrow against her bow, and let it sail through the air.

She missed the first shot, and her brow furrowed in frustration. She readjusted her stance, took a breath, and tried again. This time the arrow barely hit its mark, grazing the side of the flagpole.  _Not good enough._

She went to aim again with a new arrow, but nearly dropped her bow when she heard Commander Cullen yell behind her, “Recruit Poole! Stop focusing on the Lady Herald, and start focusing on the man with the sword in front of you!”

Brynn turned around to find that half of the recruits Commander Cullen had been barking at moments ago were staring at her. She shifted her feet, uncomfortable with the attention. Most of the men had a look of amazement in their eyes. She knew she was a better than average shot, but so were many of the other scouts in their camp. Were they staring at her or at the Herald?

“What? Do you think the demons are going to let you take a moment to watch her?” Commander Cullen roared again, trying to regain their attention. “I swear to the Maker, next person who misses blocking an easy strike like Recruit Poole will have more to worry about than whether the Herald can hit her target! You should more concerned with whether you can hit yours!”

Brynn set her bow on the ground, and leaned against it like a walking stick, watching the recruits and the Commander. A few of them glanced her way when they thought the Commander wasn’t watching, but Brynn could see him stalk around the edges of the group and growl whenever someone’s attention wavered.

It seemed like the Inquisition’s advisors were beginning to put together a good group of people. She knew from the Commander’s reports that most of the recruits weren’t experienced, but they were picking up the basics quickly. They had a good teacher — Commander Cullen walked around them, adjusting their stance, barking a suggestion, or even more rarely, paying a valued compliment.

“Your Templar seems to be good leader,” said Iron Bull, walking up behind her. Or was it the Iron Bull? Either way, the hesitancy that Brynn initially felt upon meeting the Qunari had melted away. His mercenary group deeply respected him, and Brynn was starting to get the feeling that this was a sign that she was surrounded by good people who knew what they were doing. Unlike her.

“He’s not mine—how did you know he was a Templar?” Brynn asked. She forced her eyes away from the group of practicing recruits. “He isn’t wearing the armor.”

“Doesn’t need to; it’s a Templar holding that shield,” Iron Bull replied. He pointed towards the Commander. “See how he aims the shield just down, away from the face?” Brynn watched as Commander Cullen picked up one of the shields and expertly tilted it just as Iron Bull had predicted. From this distance, she could see a determined look on his face. He wore the same look during their morning War Council meetings or when she caught him and Cassandra sharing a quiet word.

“It helps direct fire and acid away, so it doesn’t spray right in to their faces,” Iron Bull added. Brynn’s smile became frozen. “What?”

“I just—I’d hoped that maybe we could help more,” Brynn admitted. She fiddled with the string on her bow, plucking it nervously. “It’s just—it’s sad, isn’t it? To know that they are in as much danger as we are when they leave Haven?”

“The biggest problem isn’t on the front line. It’s at the top—” but the rest of Bull’s words were interrupted by one of the recruits hurrying over to them.

“Commander Cullen would like to know if you are both are done distracting his training exercise.”

Iron Bull laughed, but Brynn’s face turned red. She opened her mouth to give a curt reply but stopped when she caught sight of the Commander just as he hurriedly turned his face away from her direction.

“Excuse me,” Brynn said to Iron Bull, and she purposefully strode over to the Commander. She had to practice—she couldn’t always rely on the Inquisition’s enemies being far enough away for her to pick off. Besides, it had been difficult on Cassandra to switch from aggressor to defender as soon as Brynn got herself in to trouble on the battlefield. Surely if she explained this to the the Commander he would let her practice in peace?

As Brynn made her way across the yard, she was aware that she had caught the attention of some of the recruits again. She quickened her pace, walking straight, fast feet carrying her forward until she halted barely two feet away from the Commander. He was pointedly looking at a report in his hands.

She cleared her throat.

He glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

“I don’t appreciate being accused of distracting your forces. Our forces. The  _Inquisition’s_.” She crossed her arms over her chest, raising her chin at him. “I was practicing.”

“Is that what they call showing off in the Free Marches?” the Commander asked.

Brynn sputtered. “I was not—”

Commander Cullen tossed his report on the makeshift desk near his tent. It clattered. “They’re locals from Haven, some pilgrims, many of them holding swords for the first time, and you plant yourself not twenty feet away and start making trick shots—”

“They weren’t trick shots,” Brynn protested, her voice growing heated.

He continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “Do you—do you even realize how distracting it is for you to prance out there with a Qunari in tow—”

“I wasn’t prancing,” she added through gritted teeth. “The practice range is  _right there_. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m an archer, so unless you want me to pick up some other vocation—”

“You’re not just an archer,” Commander Cullen growled low in his throat. He leaned forward. Although he was barely a head taller than her, he seemed to tower over her whole body. “You’re the _Herald_.”

Brynn winced. She hated that. She hated how she was no longer just a would-be Chantry Sister from Ostwick or some noble girl hiding skinned knees under a petticoat. She did not enjoy how her life suddenly became defined by the mark on her hand.

“The recruits already look towards you for guidance,” Cullen tried to explain. Brynn looked at her left hand. When she was in Haven the emerald mark shined constantly. “You do them no service by distracting them from their training.”

“I wasn’t trying to distract them,” Brynn murmured again. She looked up from her hand and was surprised to see that the anger on the Commander’s face had begun to subside. It had been replaced by a tired, weary look.

“They must prepare for a real fight,” he said softly, “Not a practice one.”

His voice was low. Brynn had to strain to hear him over the clatter of blunted swords and wooden shields. It was as though he didn’t want the recruits to know how far they had left to train; it was like he didn’t want to imagine them having to fight a real battle when they were still under prepared.

Brynn didn’t want to imagine it either. Acid splashing in faces, festering wounds, battered bodies—she didn’t want to think of any of it. It made her feel sick. She chewed her bottom lip, and said just as quietly as he had, “I think I understand.”

Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. There was tension in his neck, and his face twitched as he said, “I—all right then. We—if you want to practice,” he glanced around, “I’ll be done training the newer recruits in about two hours. You could—if you were back here then, there would be no one to distract.”

“Will you be here?” she asked before she could take the words back. If he was, maybe she would come back even later.

The hand the Commander had been flexing on the hilt of his sword slipped. It was a small movement, one that she probably wouldn’t have noticed if she had not been staring at him so intently. “I, erm,” he cleared his throat. “I am not as easily distracted as others.”

Brynn did return two hours later. Well, actually, it would be more accurate to say that she returned _around_ two hours later. She had nervously waited at the stables, stroking one of the few horses they had, trying her very hardest to patiently wait for the lone figure that stood in the training grounds to leave.

He was exactly where she left him earlier in the day, report still in hand. The only indication that any time had passed for him was the carefully organized pile of reports sitting on his makeshift desk, held down by a rock, and the way that the very ends of his hair had begun to curl in the wind.

Brynn adjusted the bow on her back, hesitating. The archery range was right there, but...

 _No_ , he probably wanted to be left alone. He seemed like the kind of person who valued solitude. But Brynn had always struggled with leaving people by themselves. She couldn’t begin count the number of times one of Ostwick Chantry’s Mothers had dragged her away, chastising her for bothering someone and asking too many questions.

The Mother’s lectures never made sense to Brynn. If someone wanted time alone, why wouldn’t they just stay in their home? Andraste and the Maker could hear their prayers in a Chantry just as well as outside of it. So what did the Chantry offer? Companionship, Brynn had decided at an early age. There were always people milling about. If people didn’t want solitude, what they must have sought in the Chantry was community. And a quick conversation or a warm smile was something that Brynn was always willing to give.

So if Commander Cullen wanted to be left alone, maybe he should have been reading his reports in his tent instead of out in the open, right?

“Anything interesting?” she asked him.

“Hm?” He looked up. He hadn’t noticed her approach. The calm look on his face became strained. “I was actually reading Cassandra’s report on Fallow Mire.”

“Cassandra’s report? Not mine?” Brynn teased him. “But I even asked Varric to help me with some of the descriptions.”

“If I find myself in need of an accurate count on ore deposits or an estimate of the druffolo population, I’ll be sure to consult your letters,” the Commander remarked dryly.

Brynn smiled. “You would not be joking about the druffolo if you had been there. One nearly took Cassandra down.”

“One apparently _did_ take you down,” Cullen said, nodding to the report in his hands.

“My bribe didn’t work on her?” Brynn made a face. “Are all Seekers as incorruptible as her?”

The Commander didn’t laugh. He only said, “One would hope so.”

“But she recruited you away from the Templar Order, right?” Brynn asked. “She found you and convinced you to join the Inquistion, correct?”

The look on the Commander’s face became even more strained. Brynn winced—that had probably not been the right thing to say. “It wasn’t quite like that. But yes, she did recruit me in Kirkwall.”

Brynn watched as he placed the report in his hands among the pile of others with delicacy that she would not have expected from a man who had spent the last two hours wielding a sword and shield. “I was there during the Mage uprising,” he explained. “I saw firsthand—” but Brynn wasn’t really listening. Not anymore. She’d heard this story before from Cassandra. Instead, she concentrated on the sound of his voice. It rolled over her in waves.

“Now it seems we face something far worse,” he finished, turning towards her. He frowned. She had taken a moment too long to respond.

“The Conclave destroyed, a giant hole in the sky…things aren’t looking good.” He didn’t laugh. It would have made Varric laugh. Solas would have even smiled. This was going awful, she probably should have just left him alone after all.

“That’s why we’re needed,” he said seriously, staring down at her. She listened to the way his voice hitched and rose. He spoke faster than before, the words tumbling out of his mouth and over his scarred lips. “The Chantry lost control of both the Templars and Mages, and now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains. The Inquisition could act where the Chantry cannot. Our followers would be part of that. There’s so much—” He cut himself off short and shook his head, remembering himself. He added, with some embarrassment in his voice, “Forgive me, I doubt you came here for a lecture.”

“No,” she said, putting her most winning smile on her face. He looked so serious, so tired. Maybe one more try at making him laugh? She positively beamed at the Commander in front of her and said cheerfully, “But if you have one prepared, I’d love to hear it.”

To Brynn’s great surprise, he _did_ laugh. It wasn’t loud or boisterous. It was slow, quiet, cautious as though he wasn’t used to making the sound himself. But beneath its tempered nature there was a rich warmth that made her throat feel thick like she'd just swallowed honey.

“Another time, perhaps.” He was smiling now. He looked younger when he did that.

“I, uh,” Brynn watched as the smile on his face stiffen. His hand was flexing on the hilt of his sword again. He turned his head and focused on the scout approaching them, a pile of missives in his hands. “There’s still a lot of work ahead.”

He took a step back away from her but there was a swagger in his movements that she had not seen before. It was like his laugh had broken down a small barrier, but once work appeared in front of him the wall came back up. Unsure what else to do, she followed suit, putting one of her feet behind her, until the Commander was no longer focusing on her but instead talking with the scout regarding supply lines.

She felt as though she was no closer to understanding the Inquisition's Commander than she had been earlier.


	4. Chapter 4

“I don’t understand what the problem is,” Cullen said low to Cassandra, sitting across from her.

They did this often, whenever Cassandra was not traveling with the Herald. They would meet in Haven’s makeshift tavern. If it was early enough in the evening, they would eat together. They didn’t always talk, but when they did it usually concerned the Inquisition—recent allies found in unexpected places, the number of refugees and recruits flocking to their small stronghold, and decisions made that morning in the War Room.

Cullen would be on edge the whole time. Every moment he and Cassandra talked about something relating to the Inquisition was another moment when she wouldn’t lower her voice and ask in a hushed whisper _how is it?_ with that meaningful look on her face. There was no question what _it_ was. Cassandra was the only other soul who knew he had stopped drinking lyrium.

So even though they were discussing plans for Val Royeaux, Cullen relieved that _he_ was not the topic of conversation.

“Why won’t you go to Val Royeaux?” Cullen asked Cassandra for what felt like the thousandth time.

“It is no longer my decision to make,” Cassandra would reply immediately.

“Why won’t _she_ go to Val Royeaux?” Cullen asked instead. There was no need to explain who she was. Neither he, Leliana, nor Josephine were the leaders of the Inquisition. Cassandra was the leader they rallied behind, but as every day went by she looked more and more to the Lady Herald for input.

“I believe she’s waiting to see if we have more information on what to expect,” Cassandra said simply. “It is not a poor idea.”

“Shouldn’t she know what to expect?” Cullen asked, anger seeping in to his voice. “She’s noble born, isn’t she? Josephine mentioned as much. She should feel at home in Orlais,” he added with barely concealed contempt.

“It is only a title, it means nothing about _her_ ,” Cassandra said waiving her hand dismissively.

When was it that Cassandra started trusting the Herald so openly? Cullen swore every time Cassandra returned from her excursions with the Herald, the two grew closer. It didn’t make sense. Cassandra was a strong leader, and their Herald was a young woman who seemed more concerned with making others laugh than reading the reports she was supposed to review before meetings in the War Room.

It didn’t help that he was constantly running in to their Herald. Was it the Maker’s idea of a joke? Was _she_ doing it on purpose?

A week ago she had been at the archery range “practicing” in front of the Inquisition’s newest recruits. Later, when she asked if he had a lecture prepared for her, a laugh had bubbled in his throat. It had surprised him. How could he laugh when they had been talking about all that the Inquisition needed to do? But he had and she had smiled triumphantly like she had won some small victory against him, and it had put him in a foul mood for the rest of the afternoon.

During their War Council meetings, they constantly argued with one another until they were both red in the face and had nothing more of significance to say. Sometimes the Herald took his advice, but more often than not the Herald used Leliana’s scouts to assess a situation or she took a diplomatic approach first. The constant inaction was completely ridiculous. What was the point in building a force if it wasn’t used?

And at night? At night, when Cullen’s sleep was eventually interrupted by nightmares, he would leave his tent and wander the paths surrounding Haven. Half of those nights, he would see the Herald doing the same. They would look up, lock eyes, and she would open her mouth to greet him, but Cullen would nod stiffly and stride past her before the words could tumble from her lips. He knew it was rude, but he just…he wanted to be _alone_ and she was anything but silence and solitude, with her constant, never-ending questions.

Cassandra’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Cullen looked at his hands and realized that he had been gripping the drink in front of him too tightly.

“We’ll go to Val Royeaux soon,” Cassandra assured him as though that has been what was consuming his thoughts. “I think she’s ready to make a decision soon, and I will support it.”  
  
The tavern door banged open. Cullen winced at the loud noise. He looked up just in time to see Varric and Iron Bull step through the open door. He strained his neck, trying to see past the towering Qunari. Their Herald was not in sight.

“Seeker! Curly!” Varric took a seat across from Cassandra without invitation, and Iron Bull followed suit.

“Must you really join us?” Cassandra sighed at Varric. “We were having a private conversation.”

“Oh, Seeker, I am wounded,” Varric said, “But you can’t leave us. I promised our Herald that _you_ at least would be here — it was the only way I could convince her to stop stomping around in the cold outside and come play a game of Wicked Grace.”

Cassandra looked a little flattered, and Cullen sighed in annoyance. “I’m sure we can deal you in too, Curly,” Varric added.

“No,” Cullen said firmly. He pushed back his chair. “I have, erm, reports to review tonight before the morn.”

Cassandra looked at him quizzically, and Iron Bull said, “What reports are those? The latest compilation of the Randy Dowager?”

Varric laughed. “Don’t tell me you read that trite. Just for you, Curly, I could work up some nice short about you and the woman of your dreams. Maybe a secret tryst with a mage in your earlier days? A beautiful woman outside the Blooming Rose? A strong but quivering Knight-Templar?”

Cullen closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Any comment Cullen made would surely incite the dwarf. He had neither the energy after sleepless nights nor the desire to undergo his teasing. Cullen eased back in to his chair, opened his eyes lazily, and answered, “No.”

“You spend too much time with a serious expression on your face,” Varric replied, looking disappointed. “It’s bad for your health.”

“So I’ve been told,” Cullen remarked dryly. “By you, in fact. Multiple times.”

“Varric, leave the Commander alone,” Cassandra said.

“Fine, fine,” Varric said, sighing dramatically. “Ah! But here comes our Herald of the hour!”

“How long have you been waiting to use that one?” Cullen asked, and Varric ignored him, and began motioning the Herald over.

She stood in the doorway, uncertain. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and he saw her fiddle with the edges of the glove on her left hand. Her eyes scanned the room, darting this way and that, as though she was trying to avoid drawing anyone’s attention. But upon seeing Varric’s waive, her face broke in to a smile of relief, and she bounded over to them on the balls of her feet, her body tumbling in to the open seat next to Cassandra with such force that for a moment two feet of her chair lifted off the ground.

“Herald!” Varric greeted her. “So glad that you could join us—and it seems like you took a bath as well!”

Cullen watched her face break in to a wider smile. “Well, you know us Free Marchers,” Brynn countered, “Smelling like a swamp makes me feel a little more like I’m at home.”

“Is that what’s wrong with Varric?” Cassandra asked, and Cullen found himself snorting in to his untouched drink.

“Laugh it up, Curly. So, our Heraldness,” Varric said, turning to the Lady Trevelyan. “Could you go up and get drinks for us?”

The Lady Herald glanced around the full tavern. As her eyes took in the number of people, her brow furrowed. “If I had known that’s why you invited me I could’ve just stayed outside gathering herbs—”

“You were late,” the Iron Bull interrupted her. “Last one to show gets the first round.”

“Or is our noble Herald too good to walk up to a quaint bar and grab a few drinks for her lowly, undeserving companions?” Varric beamed at her. When Lady Trevelyan hesitated, Varric added, “I understand, we _are_ a far cry from the illustrious establishments of Ostwick....”

“…and we Free Marchers must make due,” Lady Trevelyan finished for him, some of her usual cheerfulness returned to her voice. She and Varric were grinning at one another. It occurred to Cullen that although _he_ had never considered the Free Marchers home, it was to some. For him, home was…well, he thought the Order was his home since taking his vows, but now what?

There was a small clatter, and Cullen looked up. The Lady Herald had stood up from her chair with as much energy as she had sat down. She didn't walk to to the bar so much as dance on the edges of her feet, dodging a few outstretched legs and avoiding at least two conversations with an easy smile.

Cullen glanced around the room and with a strange, strained feeling in his stomach he realized that he was not the only one watching her.

“This will be good,” Iron Bull laughed, turning to Varric.

“Five gold says she has no idea how to handle it,” Varric told Iron Bull.

“You’re on,” said the Iron Bull, slamming his large fist down on the table. “A rogue like her? She’ll know what to do with Flissa’s attention.”

Cullen frowned at them both. “I feel as though I am missing something here.”

Cassandra frowned, armed crossed “Flissa was raving about the Herald yesterday. Varric is betting that Lady Trevelyan won’t know what to do with the—with the _attention_.”

“Cassandra’s being kind—Flissa was talking about flirting. Wanting. Needing. Sex,” Iron Bull clarified. Cullen rolled his eyes. “Boss’ll know what to do—hell, she might even take her up on the offer,” added Iron Bull. “If she wasn’t used to that kind of attention before, she must be used to it by now! Have you seen how the soldiers watch her?”

Cullen opened his mouth to respond that is was simple curiosity that made them watch her, but Varric cut him off. “You’re not much of a spy, are you? Did you even read Sister Nightingale’s report?” Varric asked. “She was going to join the Chantry before a great big hole in the sky opened up and spat her out.”

“ _She_?” Cullen sputtered. “ _She_ was going to become a Sister? Maker preserve us. And the Chantry.”

“Why are you so surprised?” Cassandra asked him. When she fixed him with the look she had on her face now, it made him feel like a young man back at the beginning of his Templar training, stumbling through his studies. “She’s a devout Andrastian. I think perhaps that’s why she’s uncomfortable being called the Herald.”

“That’s fine enough,” Cullen said, the tip of his ears turning red from the memory, “But just last week she asked me if Templars took vows of chastity. Does that sound like a Sister to you?”

Iron Bull and Varric doubled over in laugher at his words, and Cullen immediately wished he could have taken them back. It had not been his intent to make her in to a joke; it had been an honest question. The way the words had rolled off of her tongue so easily, how on earth could she have joined the Chantry?

When she had asked, he had immediately wanted to bolt. Luckily, he was a little more experienced than he was a decade ago, and he managed to get through _that_ conversation with the smallest bit of dignity intact. Maker, he hadn’t even seen the question coming. It had been on the tail end of a dozen other questions about Templar life she had asked him.

“Well, I never claimed I would have made an ideal Sister,” Cullen heard Lady Trevelyan’s voice behind him, and he sank in to his chair. She set down the mugs she had been carrying on the table. “But it was what I wanted at the time.”

“What? You didn’t want to marry an old Bann?” Varric teased. “Maybe if you were lucky you would have been the _sixth_ most important family in Ostwick, instead of just seventh. All of your wildest dreams come true, Herald.”

“Mm, yes,” the Lady Herald murmured before taking her seat. The exuberance she had shown before was gone, and if Cullen peered at her closely enough he could see that her cheeks were pink. “And next time, can someone else get the drinks? I think I offended Flissa. _Please_?” she added desperately when she heard Iron Bull and Varric roar in laughter.

Iron Bull slapped down his five gold pieces on the table. “What a shame, that would have been nice to see. The Lady Herald and Flissa,” he growled low in his throat. Lady Trevelyan looked down at her lap and flexed the hand with the mark on it.

“That’s enough, Iron Bull,” Cullen said defensively. Whatever he thought of Lady Trevelyan personally, this kind of teasing was cruel.

“Dashing knight come to protect his lady’s honor?” Varric suggested.

“I’m not—” Cullen started.

“I don’t need—” the Lady Herald said at the same time. His eyes met hers for a moment. _Did_ she need defending? Judging by the dire state of their healing draught stocks, she most certainly did when she joined Cassandra in closing rifts out in the field. But in a tavern? Cullen decided that he should have just kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t worth the way she was glaring at him now.

“I think it’s romantic,” murmured Cassandra next to him. He heard the Herald groan out loud. “Handsome knights, brave ladies—”

“Cassandra, not this _again_ ,” the Lady Herald said, shaking her head at the Seeker.

“Oh, you complain,” said Cassandra, and Cullen wondered if this was a conversation topic she had had before with the Herald. They both were frowning at one another. “But I saw you when we talked to that Mage in the Hinterlands. Evie? Was that her name?”  
  
“Ella?” asked Varric.

“Elona?” suggested Iron Bull.

“ _Ellandra_ ,” Lady Trevelyan corrected them through gritted teeth. “Her name was Ellandra. It was not something to laugh at,” she added for Cullen’s benefit.

“No, it was a sad story,” agreed Varric. As if taking it upon himself to weave the tale, he said, “Ellandra was a Circle Mage — well, before the Circles broke apart. The Herald over there found her phylactery along with a note—”

“What was her phylactery doing away from the Circle?” Cullen interjected. With the Circles falling, it would be a risk that someone could steal a Mage’s phylactery, but it hadn’t entered in to his mind before. “Shouldn’t it have been in Denerim with the other Ferelden Circle phylacteries?”

“Is that your _only_ concern?” Lady Trevelyan asked, annoyance slipping in to her voice. “The Circles don’t exist anymore, does it even matter where her phylactery is?”

“It _is_ a concern and a large problem if people are taking phylactery from fallen Circles. The Templars—”

“He _was_ a Templar. It was a Templar who took it,” Lady Trevelyan interrupted him. “He stole it and destroyed it to help her.”

“Regardless of good intentions, Templar or not,” Cullen said, growing angry, “He shouldn’t have stolen something that can control another person.”

“He was her friend,” Brynn bit back. “He was her lover. What don’t you get about that? He stole it to help and protect her. Not to gain power. He took it and destroyed it because,” Cullen heard her voice waver and crack suddenly, “Because he _loved_ her.”

Cullen had not been expecting those words to come out of her mouth. He hadn’t been expecting the emotion that shone in her eyes; they were narrowed at him, full of fire, burning like the lyrium in his blood burned. And her voice—when she spoke, it quivered and broke, like she was challenging him to argue with her and was determined to win.

But he found he had no argument. He was so weary of the Templars being taken for granted. He was tired of how they were demonized and he was sick of the silent suffering those who took the vows endured. It was exhausting to incessantly argue with others that Templars were more than just the armor they wore.

That Lady Trevelyan was arguing with _him_ , reminding him to look beyond the simple title of Templar…well, it was humbling to say the least.

“I-I’m sorry,” she started to say, but Cullen shook his head at her. She continued, “I just—it was—well, it was hard to tell Ellandra what happened.”

“What did she say?” Cullen asked. He was aware that Varric, Cassandra, and Iron Bull were staring at him. The roughness in his voice had vanished, replaced by a soft sadness. “When you told her—what did she say?”

Brynn Trevelyan fixed Cullen with her icy eyes, and Cullen found himself unable to look away. “She said that it was better to know.”

Cullen searched his memories. He thought to before Kirkwall and the string of would-be friends that he’d held away at arm’s length or to the few utterly selfish relationships devoid of emotion he’d failed at. He thought back to before Ferelden’s Circle fell and he had tried to become numb to the world. He thought to the last time when he felt he could have cared for someone. There had been a young woman in the Circle, quiet, studious, but with a sharp tongue that cut through the strict line between Templars and Mages and sliced through his armor as surely as any blade would have.

He had watched her die—her, the Mages he had sworn to protect, and his brothers and sisters in the Templar Order who were closer to him than his own blood. He had watched them all die around him and he had known without a shadow of a doubt that they were gone, only cold ashes in a burial pit and a bitter memory that he carried.

Was it truly better to know? Would it be better to have hope that someone other than him made it out of that broken Circle?

He saw the same look on the girl’s face in front of him—on the Herald’s face. Her brows were knitted and her bottom lip held between her teeth. One moment she looked lost in thought, and the next her gaze pierced him with intensity that it made him catch his breath, like she was searching for the same answer in him.

She _knew_. She knew what it was to be left behind. She had been at the Conclave. She had been the only one to walk away. She must have known of the hollow feelings that followed being left behind.

So then _why_ was she wasting time in the Hinterlands instead of traveling to Val Royeaux?

Varric cleared his throat loudly. “So, touching story aside, the trip wasn’t a complete loss.”  
  
“Yes,” Lady Trevelyan said, breathless. Cullen watched her straighten in her chair, roll back her shoulders, fiddle with the gloves on her hands, anything to not meet his eyes. “I talked to Horsemaster Dennet. He’s agreed to supply the Inquisition with horses.”

“Thank the Maker,” Cassandra exhaled. “I was becoming tired of having to pair up with Varric on horseback.”

“Really, Seeker?” Varric asked, astonished. “I am nothing but surprised. You practically jumped at the chance for me to retell the story of the Champion. Actually, you _did_ jump.”

“There’s not much to do on long horse rides other than talk!” Cassandra argued, face red.

“What does that have with you wanting me to autograph your copy of _Tale of the Champion_?”

Cullen heard a laughing front of him and saw that Brynn was trying to hide her smile behind her gloved hands. Her laughter didn’t build softly so much as it exploded in a sound of relief and joy. Any of semblance of how disarmed she had been earlier vanished.

“This is not amusing, Herald!” Cassandra chastised her. It only caused Brynn to laugh harder, and despite himself, Cullen found himself chuckling.

“You two,” the Lady Herald murmured, shoulders still shaking with her giggles. “When will you ever stop acting like an old married couple?”

“I’ve noticed you’re still using that Ferelden beast Dennet gave us,” Varric said, rounding on the young woman. “Why not switch to one of the Free Marcher horses? Maybe then you wouldn’t have to carry the smell around with you.”

“Maybe,” Lady Trevelyan started. She look up at Cullen through her eyelashes, but if she was going for a sultry effect, it was completely ruined by the way her nose wrinkled every time she tried to hide a laugh or the wide, open grin that held no hint of coyness, “ _Maybe_ I just enjoy things from Ferelden.”

Cullen felt his ears turning red anyway. He shook his head at her, and replied stiffly, “You would have made a terrible Sister.”

_____________________

Brynn had thought the night had started out _so_ well. Once she had gotten over her initial nervousness, sitting in the tavern wasn't so different from sitting around the campfire with Varric and Iron Bull. Cassandra was in good spirits, too. _And_ the Commander had even laughed a couple of Brynn’s terrible jokes. It hadn’t been his usual dismissive snort he made during their War Council meetings. It had been quiet, more of a chuckle than anything, but it sounded just as warm as Iron Bull’s roar.

Now, though, it seemed that the Commander was annoyed yet again. Cassandra would probably complain that it was Brynn’s fault, but she disagreed in this case. Especially because she was _right_ and he was most definitely wrong.

“One good strike from a sword or shield and the fight would be _over_ ,” Commander Cullen growled at her. The hand he had been dealt during their game of Wicked Grace was laid open in front of him, cards completely forgotten. “Your armor is too light.”

“And yours is too heavy,” Brynn argued back. Her own cards sat discarded at her side. “You can’t move around quickly. By time a shield-bearer strikes me, I’ve already moved out of the way.”

“You wouldn’t need to run away if you had decent armor that could withstand a hit,” the Commander said. “Archers have their place—no, before you get excited, they have their place _in a large scale battle_. Not as a scouting party with only Cassandra to watch your back.”

“Well, sometimes Bull comes along,” Brynn quipped, and Iron Bull clapped her on the shoulders in agreement. Brynn’s laugh came harder when she saw the sour look on the Commander’s face.

“Leave the Commander alone, Herald,” Cassandra said making an annoyed sound in her throat. “Can you not see that you’re upsetting him?”  
  
“I’m upsetting him? _Him_?” She asked, her voice an octave higher than usual. “Just whose side are you on anyway, Cassandra?” When Cassandra didn’t respond, she turned desperately to Varric. “You’re an archer; you explain!”

“Oh no,” Varric laughed, holding up his hands. “I am not getting involved in your lover’s quarrel.”

Brynn continued on as though she hadn’t heard Varric’s comment. She looked at Commander Cullen, shoulders hunched forward as she tried to explain. “A fight between an archer and a soldier is like—it’s like a fight of patience and cunning.”

“Patience is something you have _none_ of,” he corrected her and smirked. Blast that smirk the Void; she thought that grin was completely maddening. He only wore it when she agreed with him during the War Council meetings, like he’d won some hard-earned fight. “Are you truly trying to convince me that you of all people have enough _patience_ to wait until a soldier slips up and ducks out of cover?”

“Yes!” Brynn said empathetically. She threw up her hands, and almost knocked over her drink. She was aware that he was laughing at her now, and it made her all the more annoyed. “I understand my limitations. That’s why I hang back and wait for an opportunity to strike!”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen said between laughs, “You ‘understand your limitations’? Are you truly the same woman who was so concerned with closing the rift that she ran between her guards recklessly? As I recall, that’s what happened the first time I met you. You did not—what was it you said? _Hang back_ patiently.”

_The first time I met you_. Brynn’s mouth hung open. He…remembered that day? Did that mean that perhaps his initial impression of her had not been as poor as she had believed?

“Don’t let Curly sweet talk you by recounting your acts of bravery,” Varric said, interrupting her thoughts, “For the sake of all the archers at this table and throughout Thedas!”

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t _sweet talking_ her. I was critiquing her,” Cullen said through gritted teeth. “It was a reckless maneuver.”

Ah. Well. Nevermind. His opinion of her had not miraculously changed. “If you’ll recall,” she said, “You were flanked by demons and my initial arrow saved your Templar ass.”

Varric and Iron Bull laughed. Cassnadra did not. Her lips didn't even twitch in mild amusement; they were forming a hard frown directed at the Commander.

“I’m no longer a Templar any more,” he repeated, his eyes narrowing back. Brynn’s lips curled up in to a smile. That always got under his skin, mentioning that he had been a Templar. “And it was careless.”

“It was _right_ ,” Brynn countered. “It was a calculated risk,” she added for good measure.

“No, it wasn’t,” he immediately replied.

Their argument was becoming childish. Were they too similar? She doubted that—they were probably too different. Brynn tried to picture the Commander throwing caution to the wind and she just couldn’t. For truly, when she had dived towards the rift on that first day the met, she had not been taking a ‘calculated risk’. There was just something that needed to be done and she….well, she did it. It had felt _right._

The idea that the Commander would do the same, follow his gut feeling, without at least three requisition orders, two hours of planning, and one hour spent on polishing his armor was almost laughable.

Brynn could see the Commander’s fingers flex around his untouched drink. He opened his mouth and then shut it so quickly that his lips pursed in to a harsh line. Finally, he said, the words tearing themselves from his throat, “When are you going to Val Royeaux?”

His tone was biting like a viper, piercing her heart and stopping her breath. It must have surprised the others too, because Cassandra was shaking her head and saying to him in a warning tone, “We have already discussed this, Cullen.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m asking the Herald,” the Commander said. He didn’t look at the Seeker when speaking. He stared straight forward at Brynn.

Her throat felt tight. Her voice was caught in it. They had been arguing about archery and now—and now _this_? She had not been expecting to defend her hesitation. She had tried to explain her reasoning to Cassandra earlier, but hadn’t done a good job. She couldn’t imagine that this conversation with Commander Cullen would go much better.

“Is it that you simply don’t _want_ to?” He asked her.

“You were the one who said it was a ridiculous idea for me to address the Chantry,” Brynn said swiftly.

A bitter laugh rose in his throat. “By your logic, shouldn’t that mean that you’d run straight there?”

“I—” She hesitated, and saw him smirk. It was like her hesitation confirmed all the doubts he had about her. “I just—” she stuttered.

“I thought you made a promise to the people of Haven to stop the Breach.”

Whatever breath Brynn had left was taken from her. He was entirely right. But she couldn’t say that she was nervous—no, that she was _scared_ about what they would find in Val Royeaux. She had never been any good at addressing crowds, at talking to groups, at _leading_ people. As the youngest born, she had never been expected to. Wasn’t that what being a leader was about, making grand speeches and waging wars that others would talk about for centuries? But in Val Royeaux a slip of the tongue could cause a needless death and Brynn wanted none of that blood on her hands.

Gallivanting through the Hinterlands, helping individuals, talking to Mother Giselle and Horsemaster Dennet, those were things that Brynn knew how to do. She knew that she could dive in to a single battle and make a difference. What she didn’t know how to do was win a war, whether through troops or words or secrets. Those were Cullen’s, Josephine’s, and Leliana’s realms.

Commander Cullen had been right in their War Council when he had asked Josephine if she was serious about sending Brynn to address the Chantry. It _was_ a ridiculous idea. How was she supposed to address the Chantry Mothers in Val Royeaux when she couldn’t even form a sentence in front of the Inquisition’s Commander?

Her thoughts tumbled away from her, and Cullen’s gaze never wavered. She felt sick. Brynn looked to Cassandra desperately, but she saw the other woman avoiding her, instead focusing on Cullen. Was Cassandra embarrassed for her too?

“I—I will go,” Brynn finally burst out, gasping for a breath. “I just— _of course_ I’ll go if that’s what the War Council wants me to do.”

Whatever answer he had been hoping for, Brynn was sure this was yet another time when she was a disappointment. She stared at her hands in her laps, unsure of how to make the situation any better.

“What are you looking for, Curly?” Varric asked, sounding annoyed. Brynn had never felt so grateful for the dwarf. “What do you want the poor girl to do? Fall down on a sword in front of you? She’s going to go; _leave it_.”

“I have work to do,” Cullen growled. Brynn didn’t bother to look up when she heard the Commander leave the tavern.

“What an ass,” Iron Bull said next to her. Brynn opened her mouth—was it to agree or defend him? She wasn’t sure. No sound came out, and her shoulders slumped.

“He’s—it’s—” Cassandra said sighed, standing up from her seat. “He is a good leader, but the Commander has had to deal with many poor leaders to be here.”

Brynn nodded. And it sounded like he was having to deal with yet another poor leader, if his attitude towards her was any indication of what others thought. She heard Cassandra push back her chair and the tavern door close behind her. Brynn fiddled with the glove on her hand.

“Hey, Heraldness,” Varric said, pushing his mug of beer towards her. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ll do fine in Val Royeaux.”

“Really?” Brynn asked, looking up “You think so?”  
  
“Yeah, ‘course. What’s the worst that can happen?”

_____________________

Cullen walked back towards his tent, a lump of shame in the pit of his stomach, weighing his steps down.

He tried to keep his anger tightly under control. His self-control seemed like the only thing in this world he could rely on. It hadn’t failed him in Kinloch Hold, all those years ago locked away with demons while his brothers and sisters died around him. But had it been any use in Kirkwall with Knight-Commander Meredith? He had stubbornly clung to ignorance, refusing to see her for what she really was until it had been too late.

He had vowed that day at the Gallows that he would not make the same mistake again.

“Commander,” he heard Cassandra’s voice behind him.

“ _What_?” he snapped, turning around. Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest, staring at him patiently. Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I—what is it that you need?”

“Was it the noise?” Cassandra asked. “Your hands were shaking—was it the noise in the tavern or something else that caused your symptoms to worsen?”

When Cullen didn't respond, Cassandra stepped closer to him. She was inspecting him. He could see her eyes focusing on the dark circles under his own eyes and the sheen of sweat on his skin. Cullen looked away. “I-I know my words were inappropriate.”

“What was it that set you off?” Cassandra asked him again.

Did it matter? He could not blame others for his own shortcoming. “I—the fault is mine,” Cullen murmured.

“Hm.” Cassandra crossed her arms, looking him over. Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “It has…not escaped my attention that you seem to take issue with our Herald. Was that what made you lash out tonight?”

“The fault is mine,” Cullen repeated again, face burning with shame. His tent was only a few yards away…if he could just have silence, if he could just clear his mind, he was sure that he would feel more like himself in the morning.

“As you have said,” Cassandra replied. “But she is our Herald. I need to know if that—” she nodded her head in the direction of the tavern, where warm light spilled out on to the cold snow, “Will be a problem.”

Would it be a problem? Cullen closed his eyes. _Yes_ , it would be. He thought the Inquisition was the best way to help people. There was so much that they could do, so much potential for good. But how could they accomplish it all if Cassandra looked towards that girl in the tavern for guidance?

“What makes you follow her?” Cullen asked, opening his eyes.

“You have not traveled with her as I have, Cullen,” Cassandra said gently. “If you only saw what work she has done—I see care in the actions she takes. She has stopped to speak with _every_ person we’ve encountered. I believe her working with the refugees in the Hinterlands has brought more to our cause than any address in Val Royeaux could.”

“But she—she _hesitates_ so much,” Cullen said, frowning. “Every day that goes by is another day the Chantry labels us heretics.”

“She hesitates because she thinks deeply about these decisions before making them,” Cassandra said. “Would you prefer a rash, inflexible leader? For if I was in her role that is what you would have.”

Cullen looked at his shoes. Polished perfectly, they shined in the dim light. _The fault is my own_. He knew he was letting his past shape his opinions. But how could he just ignore what he had seen before? He had seen so many terrible decisions made by leaders, but here was someone who was just _refusing_ to make a decision.

“If you would talk to her,” Cassandra said softly, “If you would _listen_ to her for a moment instead of arguing with her, I think you would understand.”

Cullen grunted in response. Cassandra patted his forearm. “Sleep. I will speak to the Herald tomorrow regarding Val Royeaux.”

He nodded mutely, stepping in to his cold tent.

It was quiet here. Cassandra had been right about the tavern—the loud noises, the laughter, the drinks—all of it combining together had worn on him throughout the night until all he could feel was a dull pound behind his eyes and on the back of his skull. At least in the silence of his tent he could ignore the pain more easily.

He should tell Cassandra. Tomorrow, though. He had spent too much time talking, not enough time working.

Cullen’s bed was perfectly made, but he didn’t go towards it. Instead, he pulled a stool out from under the makeshift desk in his tent and sat down. Every inch of his desk was covered with carefully organized reports, maps, books, and anything that he thought contained even remotely useful information on how to most effectively use their small force.

Cullen grabbed the nearest pile of reports. He tapped his fingers to his temple as he read, the beat matching throb of his head.

He trusted Cassandra. That would have to be enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the comments and kudos! I'm going to try to keep on updating every week.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with [ART](http://raexmell.tumblr.com/post/125041189227/pterodactyldropss-commission-of-cullen-and-her) by the lovely [raexmell](http://raexmell.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

Val Royeaux had been a complete disaster, and in Brynn’s opinion, she was the one to blame.

If she had the same wisdom as Solas, she would have been able to see what a catastrophe the whole thing was spiraling in to, and avoided it all together.

Perhaps if she possessed the grace of Madame de Fer, she could have said something to convince the Chantry that she wasn’t the enemy, that she was there to help.

If she was as fearless as Sera, Brynn would have knocked the Lord Seeker right back after hitting Chantry Mother.

Brynn was sure that the Lord Seeker would not have laughed in her face and dismissed her so easily if she was intimidating as Iron Bull appeared.

And if Brynn possessed even an ounce of Cassandra’s fierce determination, she might have been able to gain the support of the Templars, or Mages, or the Chantry, or _anyone_ to help the Inquisition close the Breach.

But those were all pointless wishes. The reality was that she was unremarkable. _She_ wouldn’t even be part of the Inquisition if it wasn’t for the damned mark on her hand. Without it, she was just the same little girl she had always been back in Ostwick, parading around her parents’ courtyard with a tiny toy bow strapped across her back, pretending like one day she could be something more.

She felt the mark shiver, and it caused a ripple of pain to course through her body. The customary green glow that accompanied the hurt was hidden. Brynn had begun to wear a glove on her left hand. She’d never worn gloves before — they made her feel disconnected from her bow. She had been proud of the rough callouses she had built on her hands, and had loved showing them off during parties and balls, much to her parents’ disdain and her brothers’ amusement.

Another shiver. Another flare of green light peeking through the edges of her gloves. Another wave of pain. It was as though every time the Breach tried to expand further, she felt it in her bones.

Brynn’s shoulders sagged under the weight of it all and she wanted to cry. She was pitiful. Pitiful, foolish, mistaken girl sitting in the empty Chantry in the middle of the night, feeling _sorry_ for herself. She wanted to run. Varric had said that it would all end in tragedy if she didn’t. Would the Inquisition be better off without her around?

Andraste, the Maker, _whomever_ was responsible for this should have bestowed the mark on someone else, someone more useful. Not her.

Leliana would have been a better choice—she knew what to do in every situation and possessed none of the hesitation that Brynn did. That woman was a force of nature, unsurmountable, unstoppable. She’d already saved the world once with the Hero of Ferelden. She could save the world again.

Josephine would have been better as well. Josephine knew the right words to say at every moment, in every situation, to every _one_. Brynn had seen her charm others from the brink of damning the Inquisition countless times, and she found it more impressive each time she witnessed the Ambassador’s skill. Surely Josephine could have rallied people to the Inquisition’s cause.

Or maybe Commander Cullen. All of the Inquisition’s people looked up to him. Sometimes she watched him, standing in the training yard, strong, proud, and steady. She could see how the soldiers trusted him to make decisions regarding their futures, how others followed his lead. Despite their arguments, despite his lack of confidence in her, she admired him. He seemed so sure of every choice he made.

All three of them would have been better equipped to lead this Inquisition.

“But the one who repents, who has faith,” Brynn prayed under her breath, closing her eyes tight to stop any tears from falling, “unshaken by the darkness of the world,” she clasped her hands together harder as another wave of pain caused by the mark rushed over her, “and boasts not, nor gloats, over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker’s law and creations—”

“She shall know,” a deep voice behind Brynn finished, “the peace of the Maker’s benediction.”

Commander Cullen. Brynn rubbed a hand over her face quickly to make sure that no tears had fallen. She didn’t need another reason for the Commander to think that she was useless.

“It was not my intent to interrupt,” he said, ducking his head in apology when she said nothing.

Brynn swallowed hard, hoping that her voice would not quiver when she spoke. “I thought everyone was asleep—I didn’t think anyone would be here at this time of night.”

“Neither did I,” he admitted. He nodded to the open space next to her on the pew. “May I?”

Brynn placed her hands in her lap and nodded mutely. He sat down next to her, and she was aware of how the bench creaked under the weight of his armor and body. He was so solid, like one of the weathered oak trees that had witnessed storms up and down Ostwick’s coastline. And what would that make Brynn? Probably some useless sapling that wouldn’t survive even the mildest winters.

“The Chant of Transfigurations was never my favourite,” Commander Cullen admitted, “But you recite it…well.”

_Well_ was so typical of the Commander. He wasn’t one for false flattery, especially when it came to her. She wished that she had some witty comment that would give her the upper hand or make him laugh at her just so that she could go back to feeling more like herself. But she felt so tired and raw that nothing came to mind. Instead, she let her self-loathing and pity envelop her like a cold cocoon.

“Ah,” the Commander murmured. She felt him move his arm next to her as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. She could smell clean soap, parchment, and oil he must coat his armor in. She breathed in deeply, her eyelids fluttering closed.

“Cassandra informed me of what took place in Val Royeaux,” he finally said, breaking silence between them.

“Did she?” Brynn asked. She had found her voice but it came out as a squeak.

Commander Cullen nodded next to her. “She did. I don’t think anyone would have known what to do in that situation.” He sighed as though steeling himself for his next words, and uttered, “I certainly wouldn’t have known what to do.”

“Don’t,” Brynn snorted bitterly. “Don’t even try. I am sure you would have figured out something, great Commander and all.”

He turned to face her, a hard line that Brynn had become very familiar with forming between his eyebrows. “I meant it.”

Just what had Cassandra said to him? Had she told the Commander how she desperately tried to implore the Chantry Mother to listen to her? How she had frantically talked about the need look beyond petty rivalries? Or had Cassandra mentioned that she winced when the Lord Seeker hit the Mother, and that Brynn had looked away for a moment?

Was this pity or…or something else?

“I—” she said, feeling as though she had to explain her harsh words, “It's just—I'm—”

“You don’t have to explain—”

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed. There was no point in hiding it; the Commander had seen right through her since they first met on the battlefield. She stole a glance at him, and found that he was staring straight at her. Those _eyes_. They looked concerned. And why wouldn’t they be? She’d made a mess of her part in the Inquisition. “I’m—I’m no good at this,” she said, gesturing to the door leading to Haven, the war room, between them, “I’m not like Cassandra, or Leliana, or Josephine. I’m not like you.”

“Not like me?” He repeated blankly.

“I don’t know how to do _this_. How to lead,” she said. Her face turned red, burning with shame. “I just—there’s a _hole in the sky_ and I think I’m making it worse.”

She watched the Commander open and close his mouth. He rubbed the back of his neck again, and glanced around uncomfortably. But his eyes still looked concerned. Brynn didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to be drawn in to those muddy, brown pools—she looked at her hands in her lap.

After a while, he heaved a sigh, and murmured, “You’re not making it _worse_.”

His voice almost made her want to cry all over again. She wasn’t making it worse, but she most certainly hadn’t made the situation much better. Brynn knew how pathetic she must look to the Commander of the Inquisition, and she felt that he knew how little his comment had helped.

But at least he had been honest.

“May I ask you something?” Brynn asked Commander Cullen suddenly.

“Of course,” he said readily, seemingly eager to end the awkward silence.

Brynn closed her eyes and pictured the noble woman who ran away in terror at the sight of her in Val Royeaux. She thought of the hate she heard in the Chantry Mother’s voice when she accused Brynn of murdering the Divine, of being a false prophet. And even though Josephine hid the reports, Brynn knew that the Chantry Mother wasn’t the only person who thought she was to blame for the death of the Divine or _worse_. All Brynn needed to do was talk to Chancellor Roderick for five minutes to figure that out.

She glanced at Commander Cullen and swallowed down the lump already forming in her throat. He would tell her his true thoughts on the matter. He would not sugarcoat the truth, he wouldn’t try to soften the blow. He was too practical and straightforward for that.

“Do you—do you think I’m a monster? An abomination? Like the Chantry says I am?” Brynn asked. She looked away before she could see his face change. She kept her eyes glued to her hands. She didn’t think she could bear it if his honeyed eyes were narrowed in hate.

“Maker, _no_ ,” Commander Cullen said immediately. There was no hesitation in his voice. To Brynn’s surprise, he grabbed her hands that were laying lamely in her lap. “I don’t think the same girl who would spend her evening gathering pelts, or who would stop to tell a Mage the fate of her lover, or who would pray in the Chantry could be the same person that murdered the Divine.”

“But I don’t remember. I don’t remember what happened at the Conclave,” Brynn said, fear welling up in her. She felt her bottom lip began to shake and bit down on it hard. The pain caused her to wince, but she would not cry. She refused to continue to show weakness in front of the man before her. “What if the Chantry is right? What if the Templars at Val Royeaux were right?”

“What ifs, what ifs,” he echoed. “Those men aren’t Templars any more. I joined the Order to protect people. I joined the Inquisition because that’s where I could best do that. I refuse to stand by while the world is falling apart and do nothing.”

Brynn watched as he closed his eyes, and he breathed in deeply through his nostrils. When he opened them again, he was staring straight back at her, evenly, no longer glancing around, uncomfortable as he had been earlier. “We may not agree on much, but we both have the same end goal. I believe that’s why you’re still here.”

He spoke so fiercely. His voice was full of fire. It should have sounded like one of his famous lectures to her, but it didn’t. His words made her backbone feel less weak, and she found herself sitting up straighter, no longer hunched over.

"Is-isn't it?" he added.

“It—” Brynn started to say, but she could see the green light of her mark sneak through the edges of her glove, and she barely had time to hid it before another wave of pain traveled through her whole body. She hissed through pursed lips.

“May I?” he murmured again, and when she nodded, he took her hand and held it delicately within his. He stared at their hands together for a moment like he wasn't entirely sure what to do, and then two of his long fingers expertly grabbed the tip of her glove. He pulled back slowly, revealing her naked hand.

“Commander—” Brynn began.

“Cullen,” he corrected her. His fingers glossed over hers. She could feel the strength of his hands beneath the leather of his gloves. The leather was worn, so soft in some places that it felt like velvet against her bare skin. “Please—call me Cullen.”

She watched his fingers closely. “Cullen,” she repeated, testing the name on her lips. He expertly pressed his fingers in to the muscles of her hand.

“The mark—does it hurt you?” he asked, his voice low and thick. He rubbed her palm and elicited a grateful mew from her. Was it her imagination or did that make him touch her harder?

“No—well, sometimes,” she corrected when he gave her an unconvinced look. “But that—this feels nice.”

“Your hands are rougher than what I would have expected from a noble,” he admitted. His touch was featherlight one moment, and the next he would press his fingers deep in to her palm and soothe away the pain.

“It’s taken me years to build up these callouses,” she replied, pride in her voice. “Have you never seen an archer’s hands?”

“Yes—well, no. No, not up this close before.” She saw his mouth quirk up in a smile, and watched the scar on his face follow suit. The smile was almost relaxed. It was the only thing that looked relaxed about him. Otherwise, there were bags under his eyes, a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cold, and he looked tired. Brynn realized that he _always_ looked tired, always busy, body always tense. Even now.

A flash of green light from her hand flared up between them, and Brynn immediately snatched her hand away. Cullen’s hands grasped at air. They both stared at one another. She was sure that the confused expression on his face mirrored her own.

“I-I should—” Cullen began, moving his hands away from where hers had been moments ago. One of his large palms touched the pommel of his sword, then his fingers wrapped around the hilt. “I should go. Erm, leave. Y-yes.”

Her heartbeat was racing. She was sure it was echoing around the Chantry. “You don’t have to leave.” She stood up so hurriedly that she bumped in to him—he apparently had the same idea. They jumped away from one another where their clumsy movements had caused their bodies to touch.

Brynn was sure she was blushing now. Andraste’s ass, she probably looked even more foolish. Cullen cleared his throat and tried to smile at her. "Lady Trevelyan,” he murmured, “ _Some_ of us have work to do in the morning. We can’t all have a lie in like you.”

She blinked. Had he—he was making a _joke_?

Brynn laughed. It wasn’t that it was particularly funny, but she appreciated that he was making an effort, trying to smooth over some of the tension that hung between them. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Commander.”

“Cullen,” he corrected. The smile on his face looked less strained.

“Cullen,” she agreed, and as he walked away, she found herself whispering those two syllables under her breath.

* * *

There wasn’t anything wrong with what he did, so why did he find himself trying to avoid others eyes as he walked back to his tent?

Cullen hadn’t intended to say anything to her. In fact, since Cassandra had appraised them all of what took place in Val Royeaux, he had thought to avoid their Herald altogether. 

But she had looked alone, like a little, lost girl. She had reminded him of the sleepless nights he had spent since Ferelden, replaying hastily made, poor decisions over again in his mind. She reminded him of mornings spent on his knees, begging the Maker to tell him how to fix his mistakes in Kirkwall. When he had seen her shiver, it reminded him of how often he awoke at night with pain pricking his own body.

He’d only wanted to ease her burden for a moment, like no one had eased his.

Cullen had done similar for others before, had he not? He remembered all of the vigils he attended for the young Mages ready to take their Harrowing, and afterwards taking it upon himself to deliver the news of their death in as calm of a voice as he could muster. He remembered holding the hand of one of his Templar brothers as he bled out on the streets of Kirkwall, health draughts and Healers long gone. He remembered the rousing words that had spilled from his lips after the Conclave exploded, urging those under his command forward to flank the rifts, to cover others’ escapes.

Sitting with Brynn in the Chantry was no different than helping another soldier. There was no reason to avoid anyone’s gaze like he had done something inappropriate. 

Over the next week, in little ways, Brynn began to chip at the armor that he had built around himself, much to his surprise. There wasn’t one defining moment when he knew that his annoyance with her had turned into acceptance, but before Cullen knew it, he found himself scrutinizing her less and less. Critiques had been replaced with...with concern. Was that going too far? He wasn’t sure, but he knew something between them had changed.

He wondered if she felt it too.

Two days after their encounter in the Chantry, he had watched her prance down the steps in front of Haven. She took them two at a time, and let herself bounce joyfully every moment that one of her feet landed on solid stone. He watched her walk over to the pen where the horses were kept, listened to her greet Horsemaster Dennet cheerfully, and then saw her pull what was left of an apple out of her pocket. She cautiously extended it to one of the horses, and he heard her laughter echo as the beast ate the fruit from her palm. There was kindness and warmth in her unrestrained laugh.

For the rest of the day, he found himself straining his ears, trying to catch wisps of her laughter over the sound of shields and swords clashing.

The next day, he caught her about to leave the camp. She had her Ferelden horse by the reins, and the rest of her companions were a little further ahead, talking about what they were planning to accomplish that week in the Hinterlands.

“Lady Herald,” Cullen called to her retreating back. When she didn’t stop immediately, he said again, “Lady Trevelyan.”

She turned around, a smile perched on her lips. She looked more relaxed than the night in the Chantry, her shoulders thrown back and chin raised up at him. “I thought I told you that the only people who call me that are my parents and Josephine.”

“Lady Trevelyan,” he repeated, and he stopped in front of her. He flexed his hand. Why had he stopped her? There had to have been a reason. Were there reports that he needed to give her? Perhaps he needed her to grab some specific herbs for their soldiers. Or was it that she needed to investigate—

“Yes, Commander Cullen?” She teased him. He needed to remember what it was fast. There had been a reason. He _knew_ there had been one. He cleared his throat and glanced down desperately. 

_There_. His gloved fingertips grazed her waist as he reached forward. She looked at him, surprised. “What—”

“Your armor,” he explained. He grabbed the loose belt he had been reaching for, and tugged it hard against her. “You didn’t fasten it properly.”

“Oh,” she exhaled. He hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath. “I—thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” he replied.

She stood there for a moment, watching him. Cullen stared straight back at her. It was almost a contest between them now. Whoever looked away first lost, and being able to puzzle over her and watch how her face betrayed her every emotion was its own kind of reward.

“Your Heraldness!” He heard Varric bark at her. “Are you coming with us or just going to harass Curly all day?”

Cullen watched her roll her eyes. “When we get back,” she told him, “You’re going to have to tell me why he calls you Curly.”

“Maker, _no_ ,” Cullen groaned, and she laughed, and he smiled. _When we get back_. He liked the simple hope those four words contained.

The next time he saw her was shortly after she returned from the Hinterlands. He had been up most of the previous night. His body had started to shake involuntarily while he slept, like shivers, until the movements awoke him. His eyelids felt heavy while he read his morning reports next to Cassandra in the tavern that turned mess hall during the day.

“If you don’t hurry up with your breakfast, we _will_ leave you behind, Herald,” he overheard Lady Cassandra threaten. He looked up, and saw their Herald hopping on one foot, tugging on her boots, while trying to hobble towards their table.

“And miss out on the lovely Storm Coast weather? Perish the thought!” She said to Cassandra, eyes dancing with mirth. The mischief on her face died when she laid eyes on the table, food mostly picked clean from the recruits who had already eaten.

“If you woke up at a disciplined time, you’d have more selection,” Cullen began to lecture her as she wrinkled her nose.

“Surely you can’t expect me to kill hordes of demons on just…whatever this is supposed to be,” she murmured, taking seat across from him. She pooled some of the boiled grains on to her plate and looked at the offending meal suspiciously.

“The rest of us make due,” Cullen replied swiftly. She fixed him with a glare. Eyes never leaving his, she dipped her spoon into the food on her plate. She turned pale when her food slipped past her full lips, but she swallowed hard, and a grim smirk of satisfaction followed.

Cullen looked back at his reports, hiding his smile. She was so ridiculous.

“What’s so amusing?”

“Only you would act like a martyr over eating _oatmeal_ ,” he replied, his brown eyes flickering over his report.

She _did_ look miserable though. If Cassandra’s reports were any indication, Brynn would need her strength on the Storm Coast. Their scouting party always ran in to trouble, and Cullen knew that their Herald was personally responsible for their low elfroot stock due to the number of healing potions she consumed.

Besides, he rarely had an appetite anymore.

“You can have some of mine,” he offered, pushing his plate towards her.

The glance between Cassandra and the Herald made him aware of how out-of-character the comment must have sounded. “Are you certain?” She asked, reaching forward hesitantly. When he nodded, she snatched a piece of toasted bread off of his plate and took a large bite out of it. “Thanks,” she said, mouth full.

“It’s no bother,” he said immediately. Maker, would Cassandra stop looking at him? The way her eyes were narrowed made him nervous.

“We should go, Herald,” Cassandra said suddenly, standing up. “It’s a long ride ahead.”

“Yes,” agreed the Herald. She grabbed another piece of toast off of Cullen’s plate and said, “Thanks again, Commander.”

“It’s no bother,” he repeated, gathering his reports and organizing them in to a pile to keep his hands occupied. He did not look up again until he heard the tavern door slam behind the two women.

Their Herald returned three days later. It had been a short excursion to the Storm Coast, but apparently a worthwhile one. Cullen had been in the middle of talking with one of his lieutenants when she came back. He knew she was behind him before she even spoke.

“How was your trip?” he asked her. Judging by her lack of quick reply, he supposed he had caught her off guard. Cullen turned around to face her.

“How did you know it was me?” She asked, tilting her head to the side. He was beginning to find it endearing how their Herald always answered a question with one of her own.

“I heard you,” he said, not wanting to admit that it was more that he _felt_ her approach. It was subtle shift, but he always knew she was near by the way that the recruits held their shields a little higher and blocked an oncoming attack with more passion. It hadn’t always been like this, but over the month, it seemed as though she was becoming more and more of an inspiration to the people of the Inquisition. He had to at least give her credit for that.

Cullen noticed the skeptical look on her face. “What? It’s the truth—”

“ _Herald_!” Lady Cassandra yelled, marching over towards them. Varric was in tow with her, muttering darkly. It was unusual for those two to look cross at the Herald at the same time, and he watched Brynn’s shoulders slump. “You were to walk straight towards Adan or Mother Giselle. I don’t care who, but you must have your injuries checked—”

“I was headed over there,” Brynn interrupted lamely. “I was just…saying hello.”

Varric laughed at her. “Flirting can wait, your Heraldness.”

Normally Varric’s comment would have flustered Cullen, but he peered at the Herald closely and only now noticed that her left shoulder was sitting lower than her right, and that she was cradling her arm against her chest. He’d assumed that her mark was bothering her again, but it was more than that. How had he overlooked this?

“What happened?” He asked her roughly. His eyes roamed over her body, searching for the source of her pain.

“It was nothing,” Brynn said hastily. Even though all of their faces were red from the cold, hers lacked any color. “I’m _fine_ ,” she added, more insistent this time.

“Crazy woman wasn’t watching her flank—”

“Because I was lining up a shot—” Brynn tried to interrupt Varric, but Cassandra continued for the dwarf.

“A solider, a Templar, knocked her down,” Cassandra explained.

“It’s not as dramatic as they’re making it out to be,” Brynn said immediately. She laughed, but it turned in to a wheeze, and then she began to cough violently.

“Enough,” Cullen said sternly. “We are going to the healers. _Now_ ,” he growled when he saw the protest beginning to form on her lips.

She took a shaky step forward, and Cullen immediately reached for her side. “Let me carry you,” he demanded. She didn’t look like she’d be able to make it up all the steps that lead to the Chantry.

“Oh, Maker, no,” Brynn said hurriedly, holding up her uninjured arm in protest. “Have the great Commander Cullen carry me? That would be the highlight of my life; it would completely spoil anything afterwards.”

“Really, Herald?” Cassandra chastised, and Varric was laughing. Both of them looked more relaxed at Brynn’s words—Cassandra had stopped making fists with her hands at least. Was it—had their Herald been making jokes for their benefit, and not her own? Was  _that_ why she always had some unnecessary comment that she thought was amusing? Cassandra and Varric did look more at ease.

Brynn coughed hard again, shoulders shaking.

“You’re taking her straight to a healer?” Cullen demanded as Cassandra stepped forward and pulled the Herald’s uninjured arm around her shoulders, letting the younger woman use her as a crutch.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Of course,” she told Cullen, hobbling slowly away.

Cullen watched them, and then scratched the back of his neck in annoyance. The Herald’s jokes aside, how could she have left her flank open like that? She needed to be more aware of the battlefield — he had been right when they argued; she obviously couldn’t take many hits. It was hard to miss a Templar in full plate running towards you with a shield. Was she just oblivious or—

“ _Down_ , Curly,” Varric said beside him, laughing. “The Seeker’s just taking the Herald to a healer; she’s not whisking her off to some secret tryst without you.”

“What?” Cullen sputtered, rounding on the dwarf. “That’s not—I wasn’t thinking—she’s injured and she’s the _Herald_.”

“Right,” Varric said unconvinced. “I know she’s an improvement over Knight-Commander Meredith, but you don’t have to jump her bones because of it.”

“I would never—”

Varric shook his head, his body shaking with laughter. “Do neither one of you see it? Hell, I should be taking notes — my editors would love it. I can’t make this shit up,” he said, walking away.

Cullen didn't know what Varric was talking about. He was only concerned for their Herald as an agent of the Inquisition, another soldier even, albeit a valuable one.

His ears perked up again. Cullen could hear the Herald's laugh, though admittedly it was not as warm, loud, or obnoxious as usual. He turned and watched Cassandra helping Brynn up the stairs. Their Herald was waiving her good arm dramatically. Cassandra was rolling her eyes but _laughing_.

Perhaps he was a  _little_ more concerned for her than he would be for an agent. Perhaps. 


	6. Chapter 6

“It is your decision,” Cassandra said for the hundredth time.

Brynn had been holding out hope that Cassandra would decide whether the Inquisition should seek the aid of the Templars or Mages. It made the most sense, anyway—Cassandra was a Seeker, she knew a ton more about both groups than Brynn could ever hope to, and she was practically the Inquisition’s leader.

Yet despite all the excellent reasons Brynn had, Cassandra insisted on their ride back from the Hinterlands that this was Brynn’s choice.

“But you think we should seek the aid of the Templars, right?” Brynn asked, rephrasing her question. Cassandra turned away from her to begin hacking at one of the training dummies. Brynn sighed loudly and bounced to the side, trying to avoid Cassandra’s sword while staying in her line of sight.

Cassandra ignored her.

Brynn waived her arms frantically in the air. “ _Right_?”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise low in her throat as her sword became stuck in one of the dummies. “There is something amiss with the Lord Seeker.” She grunted with the effort of trying to pull her sword free. “I believe it warrants investigation.” She rolled her shoulders to loosen her muscles and adjusted the grip on her sword. “But _it is not my decision_ ,” Cassandra said firmly, wrenching her sword loose finally.

“But you think—”

“ _Herald_ ,” Cassandra hissed at her. “I am done answering your questions.”

Brynn knew when she was being dismissed. She had _that_ particular tone memorized from years of pestering her family.

So she talked to Iron Bull next.

“Under the Qun, this would never happen,” Bull explained. “No Circles, no Templars, no problems.”

“Thanks, Bull,” Brynn said sarcastically. “Very helpful. Nice to know that the Qunari have this all figured out.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Boss,” Iron Bull replied, chuckling. “I’m not just a pretty face.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she giggled and danced out of Bull’s reach before he could swat at her.

“Forget it,” Varric had said when he saw Brynn approaching. She didn’t even get a chance to ask her questions. “I’ve had enough of Mages and Templars to last me a lifetime. I’ve written that plot point before and I don’t reuse material.”

“Trying to decide which group of men in skirts you wanna get your knickers in a twist over?” Sera had laughed when Brynn met her in the tavern. “Get it? ‘Cause the Templars wear that stupid skirt around their hips and Mages only wear robes…get it?”

“I get it,” Brynn said, smiling. “But that doesn’t help.”

Maybe research would help? Wasn’t that what Jonathan, one of her older brothers, did whenever there was a problem that he couldn’t figure out? Brynn pictured her brother sitting at his desk, back hunched over in typical Trevelyan posture. She thought the memory would bring a smile to her face, but instead it caused the dull homesick feeling she always carried to pierce her chest painfully.

The Trevelyans. Her _family_. Just how many of them were Templars? On her father’s side alone there were at least one uncle and two cousins. Her nephew from her eldest brother planned to join the Templars once he reached of age too. Last time Brynn saw the young boy he had been running around the Trevelyan estate’s courtyard, the two dulled daggers she had given him last Satinalia clutched in his hands. And Liam—her brother closest to her in age and temperament. He _was_ a Templar. He had joined the Templars when he was sixteen, and Brynn had cried and cried in to his best friend’s shoulder when Liam had left them both behind.

What was the Lord Seeker leading them in to?

“What reports do you have on the conflict between the Mages and Templars?” Brynn asked Leliana. The Spymaster looked up from her work, surprised. “I _know_ ,” Brynn said through gritted teeth. “I never read reports. I know, I know. Please—I don’t need one of the Commander’s lectures from you too.”

“What would you like to know specifically?” Leliana asked her. To her credit, she didn’t lecture Brynn. She didn’t even look annoyed.

“Um.” Brynn screwed up her face. What would Jonathan had asked for? That nug humper, he was so insufferably smart; far smarter than she was herself. “I guess anything you have on the Tevinter Mages in Redcliffe? And a count on the number of people in Redcliffe Castle,” Brynn added as an afterthought. Feeling a little more confident, she said, “I’d also like any information you have on Therinfal Redoubt’s fortifications and the number of Templars located there. Also any information you have on Lord Seeker Lucius— _oh_ , and also Grand Problem Maker—”

Leliana cleared her throat.

“I mean,” Brynn shuffled on her feet, “Grand _Enchanter_ Fiona. Any information you have on her. Please,” she added.

“May make a suggestion, Herald?” When Brynn nodded, Leliana said, “Josephine will have insight on the political consequences of either side. And Commander Cullen, of course, will have a unique insight given his past experiences.”

Unique insight indeed, Brynn thought. The Commander would rattle off his opinion regarding the Mages and the Templars at the beginning of each of their War Council meetings as though he was reciting from a list he’d prepared earlier.

Actually, Brynn thought, smiling to herself as she made her way to Josephine’s office, he probably _had_ written a list of pros and cons at some point.

 _Something_ had changed between her and Cullen since he’d talked to her in the Chantry after Val Royeaux. At first glance, their dance was still the same—he still grew annoyed at her easily and she often thought he acted like a stubborn stick in the mud. But there was also this odd softness to their hard edges now; it was like her confession to him and his kindness to her had sanded away some of the abrasiveness between them.

The first difference she had noticed other than _I-dunno-it-just-feels-odd_ was that the Commander had changed the way he wrote to her. Oh, no doubt, Cullen would still berate her about content of the missives she sent from the field. Too short, not enough useful information, he would write. _We need accurate counts of Templars, Mages, and rifts; not an encyclopedia on local fauna_ , he would reply and Brynn could practically hear his voice lecturing her when she read his words.

But instead of signing his letters back to her as Commander Cullen, he had started to add another line in his boxy, straight handwriting: _Be safe, Herald._

The first time it had happened, Brynn had rushed over to Cassandra sitting next to the campfire, and shoved the parchment in front of her face. She demanded to know whether his scribbles were some weird Ferelden joke or Templar secret code. “It is a closing; you’ll find most letters contain them,” Cassandra had said, knowing smile playing on her lips.

It was annoying. And why had Cassandra smiled? She hardly ever smiled that easily. Unless Varric was wrong about something. Or if Varric needed help to mount his horse. Or if he missed an easy shot with his crossbow. Or if his favorite bottle of ink spilled. Or—well, Cassandra smiled a lot _at_ Varric. So it did not make sense for her to smile _at_ Brynn.

The other difference Brynn had noticed was in the way she and Cullen argued. On the surface, they still bickered as usual. She would stare at him across the war table, fingers drumming impatiently on the wood beneath her hands. Cullen would lean further and further forward with every passing remark until Brynn was sure he’d topple over, heavy plate and all. But there was no bitterness in the words they shared, no hidden insults, no bite. Now it felt more like they were helping each other, not just bickering, by pointing out what the other had missed.

It was…it was a strange sort of conversation they would have, him critiquing her, she sharing concerns about his plans, and both of them eventually meeting somewhere in the middle.

When they did reach a consensus, she would stop moving with nervous energy, and he would give this derisive, little snort. It made the scar on the side of his mouth quirk up. Brynn wondered if his scar had always done that or if she was only noticing now because he had started to look less annoyed at her and more amused at himself since Val Royeaux.

Brynn discussed the merits of making allies of the Templars or Mages with Josephine far in to the night. When she trudged back to her cabin, Leliana had left a pile of reports, a note tied to the front promising more to come. It would have been nice to ignore the parchments, to sink in to her bed, but…but _this_ was important. It was a decision that needed to be made soon—Josephine had said as much—and she would be damned if anyone would accuse her of being _careless_ and _reckless_ and _not thinking this decision through_.

So instead of sleeping, Brynn clutched the pages tightly to her chest, protecting them  from the cold wind that threatened to rip them from her grasp, and made her way to the tavern. When she arrived, she quickly scurried to an open table, intent on studying. She could faintly hear a half-hearted pluck of the bard’s lute and quiet murmurs of warm conversation as she settled down for the night. 

It all quickly faded into background noise. A hand threaded through the tight braids of her hair while the other turned the pages of the reports, worrying the corner of the papers between her fingers, her potion-stained hands leaving marks on the otherwise unsoiled pages.

Forty people here. Thirty there. Twelve Mage apprentices who had not yet passed their Harrowing. Fifteen grayed Templars, so old that they had not held a sword in years. Four fierce battlemages, each commanding a different school of magic. Three Knight-Captains made homeless after their Circles fell. Impenetrable castle here, well trained force there.

It had probably been a dumb idea, studying these reports for answers—like counting lives was simple math, like making choices was just a matter of numbers.

Her fingers rubbed her skull. She could feel some pieces of her hair fall out of place, and she pushed them back behind her ears impatiently.

“Lady Herald.”

She looked up. Oh no. Brynn immediately looked back down at her reports. _Flissa._ She was standing _there_. Right in front of Brynn, hips cocked to one side.

Flissa placed a tankard down in front of her and made no mention of the blush appearing on Brynn’s cheeks. “There’s more where that came from,” she said, and Brynn looked up in time to catch a wink on the barmaid’s face.

“Oh.” Brynn’s fingers tightened around her parchments. She had hoped last time she’d make her lack of interest clear. She didn’t think she had the heart to reject the barmaid’s advances again. “I, um, it’s not necessary.”

Flissa laughed. “It’s not from me—I’ve had half a dozen offers to cover your drinks tonight.”

Why? Why would anyone possibly want to cover _her_ drinks? Brynn leaned to the side of her chair, peering around the woman. It was an unsubtle movement, and she saw half the eyes in the tavern quickly avoid her. “I—can’t you—can’t you just cover their drinks? Or some other soldiers’? Besides, drink makes my head foggy.”

“Aren’t you adorable,” Flissa cooed, ignoring her protests, and leaving Brynn behind with a sway of her hips.

With Flissa gone, Brynn could see the whole tavern. Eyes were trained on her. Every nerve in her body told her to look down, to avoid making any kind of contact. That’s what she would have done in Ostwick.

But this wasn’t Ostwick; this was a tavern in Ferelden, far away from her home on the Waking Sea.

She was not seated in front of a group of nobles who were more concerned with summer fashions than with poor crop yields. The people seated around her weren’t Banns and Arls trying to guess what her part to play in Ostwick’s small version of the Game would be. These people were refugees, they were soldiers. These were the souls that made up the Inquisition. These were the people who placed their trust in her advisors, in Cassandra, and yes, even placed their trust in _her_. The Herald of Andraste.

They were the Inquisition. Whatever her title was, she was too. They were a force to right wrongs, to protect people. She was as well. Isn’t that what Commander Cullen had said last week? That they were both here to protect others?

She reached for the tankard. With shaking hands, she raised it, tipped it back, and took a long swig. She could see over the rim a few nods of acknowledgment and small smiles that held no ulterior motives.

Brynn vowed then that she would find the best way to protect the most people. She would.

Even if that meant reading ever damned report ever compiled until her eyes were crossed.

* * *

Their business for the day was concluded, but their Herald didn’t scurry out of the War Room as quickly as possible like she usually did. She lingered.

Cullen stayed behind too, making a show of gathering his reports. She didn’t notice—which was unusual in itself. When they were in the same room, he always felt her sharp eyes trained on him and every confident sway of his arm or awkward shuffle of his feet.

Today, though, she was absorbed in the map in front of her. Her angular nose was wrinkled as she studied the Ferelden side intently. Their Herald spread two slim fingers and placed them on the map and walked her calloused hands towards Redcliffe, then back. She did the same for Therinfal Redoubt. Her lips were moving wordlessly, and he realized that their Herald was counting distances. _Scouting_ paths.

“Here are the last of the reports you requested, Herald,” Leliana said, dropping a large pile of parchments with an audible thud.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, eyes not breaking from the map.

 _She_ had requested reports? _Really_? Cullen drew his eyes away from her and to the stack of reports. He’d recognize them anywhere — he’d commissioned half of them himself and probably written a good quarter. “Why,” Cullen asked slowly, “Are you looking at Redcliffe Castle’s fortifications?”

“Huh?” She snatched her hand away from the map, knocking over one of the markers clumsily. “Um. Idle curiosity?”

Cullen shook his head. “About fortifications? Doubtful. Unless there’s some rare herb found near Redcliffe.”

“Well, actually,” Brynn began, face suddenly full of excitement, “There _is_ this gold and red colored ram—”

“Lady Trevelyan,” he interrupted her, “The fortifications?”

“Oh.” Her face fell. Was their Herald even capable of hiding her emotions? “I, erm, I’ve been told I need to make a decision soon regarding the Templars and Mages. I was hoping to review the information we have. All of it.”

Cullen frowned. “Why didn’t you ask me?” It was a foolish question; he knew the answer anyway. He’d already grumbled half a dozen times that they should side with the Templars, only to be ignored by all the women in the room.

“Well, I already knew what you would say,” Brynn confirmed. She cleared her throat and puffed her chest out. She lowered her voice as many octaves as she could, and said in what _she_ must have thought was a very serious, very commanding voice, “Redcliffe Castle is undoubtedly most well-defended keep in all of Ferelden, if not all of Thedas. It is impenetrable. It has been under siege countless times. The threat of Redcliffe Castle alone has stopped a number of invasions from Orlais and it is a formidable obstacle.”

“Was that—was that supposed to sound like _me_?” he asked.

“It wasn’t obvious?” She made a face. “Was I not grouchy enough?”

Cullen snorted. “Hardly.”

“Yet another area for improvement,” she said, heaving one of her dramatic sighs.

“Try to frown more next time,” he offered, edges of his eyes crinkling in humor.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she quipped immediately.

He rubbed the stubble on his chin and felt that his face had quirked up into an easy smile without him noticing. Cullen immediately shook his head as though that would make the grin disappear. He wasn’t here to idly chitchat; he had plenty of other work to do. “If you’re studying Redcliffe, does that mean you’ve decided to side with the Mages?”

Their Herald gave a non-committal shrug. _Of course_ she hadn’t made a decision yet. Why was he not surprised? Cullen dropped his hand from his face to his sword. The pommel pressed against his palm was comforting, and he wrapped his fingers around the hilt before beginning, “You know my thoughts on the matter—”

“Yes, you’ve explained them quite eloquently for a man who wields a sword as thick as my arm,” she tried to interject.

Cullen continued as though he had not heard her. “Siding with the Mages is folly. We are unsure of where their allegiance lies, especially with a Tevinter heading their organization. At least the Lord Seeker is a leader that we can reason with. Indeed, objectively speaking, the Templars would be a stronger ally for closing the Breach. They are equipped to dispel magic—”

There was the beginnings of a smile on her face. Cullen could tell by the way the edges of her wide eyes narrowed, and that her eyebrows began to inch forward, before finally her full lips broke out in a lopsided grin.

“They-they—” He flexed his hand. He would not become distracted. “ _The Templars_ train their whole lives to dispel magic. Not to mention, pouring more magic in to magic isn’t necessarily a good idea. I have personally watched it go awry a number of times in the Circles—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “As much as I adore your lectures, I _know_. And I agree with you.”

“Furthermore, if the Inquisition was to side with the Templars, perhaps the Chantry—” Cullen stopped short and stared at her. His mouth was slightly agape. She grinned wider. He quickly closed it.

“Did you—did you just agree with me?” he asked, flabbergasted. She had never agreed with him this easily before. Usually they would have at least two more arguments before they arrived at anything even remotely resembling a consensus. And that was on a good day.

She let out a laugh. It did not contain its usual warmth. “Yes.”

This was not like her. Cullen eyed her across the war table and said carefully, “I don’t understand, Lady Trevelyan.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the open door. Josephine and Leliana were standing beyond it and Cullen caught them turning their faces towards each other quickly as though they weren’t listening intently to him and the Herald.

“Did you read Josephine’s research on my family?” their Herald asked tentatively.

“Erm,” Cullen shook his head. “No. You know I can barely stomach Josephine’s talks on nobility, let alone a whole report—don’t smile at me like that. There are plenty of reports that you don’t read.”

“The Trevelyans…” she trailed off. Cullen watched her nose wrinkle. “Ugh, how do I explain this? I’ve got three older brothers and a ton of aunts, uncles, cousins, great-whatevers twice removed. I can barely keep track of them all even with all the mnemonics I was taught.”  
  
“What,” he said impatiently, “Does the largess of your clan have to do with Mages and Templars?”  
  
“A good quarter of them probably _are_ Templars,” she replied, just as inpatient. “In my family, if you aren’t born first and you aren’t the spare, you're either promised to the Chantry or the Templars. I just—” She sighed loudly, though this sigh held none of its usual dramatic flair. “In addition to all the points you made, it would be nice to know if my family is all right. _That’s_ why I’d like to go to Therinfal Redoubt.”

He saw their Herald raise her small chin in the air and try to stare down her nose at him. She looked like she was waiting for an oncoming battle. But did Cullen have any criticisms? This was the outcome he had hoped for. He had wanted to side with the Templars, yet this felt like a hollow victory. Lady Trevelyan cared deeply for strangers, so it should have come as no surprise that the fate of her family would be the deciding factor in her thought process.

He had just…well, he had hoped that she would base her decision on more than that.

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh,” was his only reply. There was that dull throb in his head again. Was his mind reeling because of the lyrium or because of the unexpected disappointment he felt?

“ _Oh_?” She repeated. “That’s…that’s it? No ‘Oh, Brynn, what a terrible idea!’ or ‘Oh, how could you possibly be so careless and selfish? As the Commander of the Inquisition’s Standing Army—’”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Cullen said, more soft than sharp. Over her shoulder, Cullen could see Leliana and Josephine watching them again, and he crossed his arms. “Sometimes _people_ ,” he said, raising his voice loud enough for the other two advisors to hear, “Have a hard time remembering that you are only a young girl—”  
  
“Excuse me,” she interjected, “I am more than just a ‘young girl’.”

Cullen rolled his eyes at her. “What I am trying to say is that there are far worse reasons in this world to make a decision.”

“What a glowing recommendation,” she murmured. “When this is all over and I take my vows, remind me to ask you to write a letter for me to give to the Chantry. Maybe I’ll be immediately promoted from a lay sister to a full blown cleric with confidence like that. Maybe they’ll even….”

Cullen wasn’t listening to her ramblings anymore. He looked back at the map, focusing on Therinfal Redoubt, half-formed strategies beginning to spin in is mind.

He was confident that the Templars would help the Inquisition. Half of a Templar’s duty was protecting the world from magic and the Breach was nothing but magic. Not to mention, when the demons invariably attacked the Inquisition’s party when their Herald tried to close the Breach, the Templars would be well equipped to dealing with them. There was a small risk that the Templars could become abominations, but nothing like the risks there were to the Mages. And, Cullen knew the Lord Seeker had been…unwilling in Val Royeaux to say the least, but he couldn’t imagine that the man wouldn’t agree to help when presented with all the facts.

It would be helpful, too, Cullen thought, to have more Templars around. He tried to assign at least one to each patrol if there were rifts in the area, but there were so many rifts that he was having problems finding enough Templars who had the ability to help. But with a whole platoon under his command? They could send their Herald to a rift with enough Templars to dispel any demons before they appeared. She could make quick work with the mark, and the remaining Templars could patrol the countryside and bring much needed stability to areas bereft with abominations—

“Well,” Brynn said, breaking through his thoughts, “As soon as my ribs heal, we are headed towards Redcliffe.”

His plans shattered as quickly as they had formed.

“ _What_?” he growled at her.

“Going to Redcliffe,” she said again. “Me and whoever else. As soon as I get the okay to leave Haven.”

“What?” he repeated. Had she just said Redcliffe? He wasn’t hearing things, was he? She had made it sound like she was going to seek the aid of the Templars naught ten minutes ago. “What—why—I thought you wanted to ensure your family was safe?”

“I _do_ ,” She wrung hands, pulling at the joints and knotting her fingers together. “But what I _want_ isn’t priority, is it? That’s not a good reason to do something,” Brynn insisted earnestly. “You and Cassandra keep on telling me that I need act more like a leader—I know you don’t say it out loud, but I can see it on your face. The rebel Mages in Redcliffe are indentured to the Tevinter Imperium. And to make matters worse, it sounds like he is somehow controlling time. I can’t ignore that. I think,” she took a deep breath, like she had run out of air in her lungs, and she stared in to his brown eyes, “I think it’s the _right_ decision to make.”

He wondered if she’d practiced that speech. But it sounded too much like her to be rehearsed, the way her voice hitched and rose, words getting away from her, half formed thoughts, sentences that sounded more like rambles—but at the core of it, an earnest hope.

“Why are you smiling at me?” she asked

He was? He was. He was smiling contentedly.

If Meredith could see him now, she’d laugh at him or worse. Meredith had never doubted her choices. Meredith had brokered no questions under her leadership. She had acted first and dealt with the consequences later.

Once, Cullen had found her decisiveness inspiring. Now he despised it.

Their Herald he could not despise. She cared deeply about others, showed it openly, and as a result of her empathy she seemed think just as deeply about the choices she made, just as Cassandra had insisted was the case. He had mistaken her hesitation for cowardliness. But she was nothing like Meredith—and Meredith, in the end, had been a coward. Her orders had tasted like cold, bitter metal in his mouth, cutting in to every part of him, until finally he’d been unable to ignore it any longer.

Brynn’s decision didn’t feel like that, even though siding with the Mages was not the result he had wanted. Her reasoning behind choosing the Mages—that they were in a situation that could not be ignored, personal feelings be damned— _that_ was something he could support.

So, yes, he was smiling, he mused. When Meredith issued her last orders, it had made him sick. When their Herald spoke, it _felt_ like the right choice.

Their Herald had begun to babble nervously in the silence he left. “You said that we’re here to protect people,” she murmured. “I think—I _know_ that with the Mages, that’s the best way we can protect the most people. I know it’s not the decision you would have made—”

“Herald—”

“But I’ve honestly read about as many reports as you have, and I talked to everyone involved, and I went back and forth a couple of times—”

“Lady Trevelyan—”

“And I truly think that it’s the right course of action to take—”

“ _Brynn._ ”

She gasped. “Yes?”

“In this,” Cullen said, “I trust your judgment.”

In one quick movement—one that shouldn’t have surprised him given her sprightly frame and weapon of choice—she leapt around the war table. Before he could protest, she’d grabbed his gloved hands in her own, and literally _bounced_ on her feet. “I-I, this—” she stuttered, unable to form words, “I am _so glad_ that you agree. I can’t _believe_ you agree. I was all geared up for this long argument, and I don’t think I can explain how much it means that you of all people—”

“Well, don’t get too excited,” he warned, “Because before you leave, Leliana, Josephine, Cassandra, and I are going to drill you on exactly what to do when something goes wrong. Redcliffe’s Castle _is_ impenetrable. When something—”

“If,” she interrupted, “ _If_ something goes wrong.”

He smirked. _If_. As _if_ it was some remote possibility. Cullen had spent enough time among broken Circles to know that something almost always went wrong. “When,” he repeated, “Something invariably goes wrong, I—the Inquisition won’t be able to use force to bring you and the others back to safety.”

“Pish,” she said, letting go of his hands, and spinning around. “It’ll go _fine_. I actually have a good feeling about this. For once!” She called out as she practically pranced out of the room, leaving him standing behind.

Josephine and Leliana poked their heads through the door. “I suppose a decision has been made?” Leliana asked.

Cullen nodded mutely in reply.

“Then lets began preparing,” Josephine said, already dipping her quill in to the pot of ink she carried with her.

“To work,” he agreed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Redcliffe, finally! :D

“It’s time.”

Leliana shook Brynn in her bed before the sun had finished rising

Brynn obediently crawled out from under her warm blankets, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The cold air stung her skin as she pulled on her leather armor. When she exited her cabin and stepped out in to morning light, Cassandra was waiting for her, and tossed her an apple as they silently made their way towards their mounts.

Brynn saddled up her favorite horse—still the Ferelden one that Dennet had originally given her—murmuring calming nothings under her breath. She had thought that her hands would slip over the buckles as she worked, but they didn’t. There was a calm inevitability about it all. She had chosen Redcliffe. There was no deviating from the path. No option to turn back. No faltering, for on the other side of it all would be relief.

Her advisors had spent the last few days drilling Brynn on plans and preparations until she could recite her part to play in her sleep. They’d meet up with the mage Dorian Pavus outside of Redcliffe Castle. Leliana would split off with him. Brynn would serve as bait, distracting the Tevinter Mage Alexius and his forces with her witty charm (Josephine had murmured an ‘Andraste watch over us’ at _that_ comment) while Leliana and her spies would sack the castle. When everything went to plan, Alexius would not realize that it was he who was in a trap—not Brynn—until it was too late.

It would be grand, as Sera would say. Cullen grumbled over some of the finer details, Josephine did not like the idea of the Herald of Andraste being used as bait, but it was _fine_. Leliana insisted that it was the best option, and Brynn was sure it would go well. She felt a lot better about this situation than she had about Val Royeaux. She felt prepared. She felt ready.

And after Redcliffe, after recruiting the Mages? They would ride back to Haven, close the Breach, and they could all go _home_. She could go back to Ostwick where her family awaited her.

Yes, she thought, kicking her horse forward at a pace that made Cassandra and Solas grumble, this would go _right_.

* * *

 Cullen lay in his bed that morning, blinking at the canvas of his tent’s ceiling, eyes heavy but body restless.

Another sleepless night—but it mattered for naught. From the moment the decision had been made to side with the Mages, he, Leliana, and Josephine had plotted, leaving crumpled reports and candles burned to the wick in their wake. They gathered intelligence, handpicked Leliana’s scouting party, and ironed out every detail of their combined strategies. It had been exhausting, tiring, thankless work in that stuffy war room with maps spread out around them.

He felt better than he had in weeks.

If someone had told him three years ago, before the mess in Kirkwall, that he would be gladly spending his nights with an Orlesian spymaster and an Antivan diplomat, debating the best way to negotiate treaties with rebel Mages…well, he would have laughed. And thinking about it now, he still did want to. But it felt _right_. Was this—was this some kind of proof that he was healing? That he was beginning to move forward from Kirkwall, from Ferelden? He couldn’t imagine the agreement to work with rebel Mages coming from the young man who left Kinloch Hold.

Perhaps giving up lyrium had been helping.

Cullen made his way to the war room. He was usually the first to arrive, so he was surprised when Josephine was already present.

“Good morning, Ambassador,” Cullen said carefully. It usually was never good news if Josephine arrived first. It probably meant that another dimwitted noble wanted to use the Inquisition to his or her advantage.

“They’ve left already,” Josephine replied.

“It’s unusual to find you— _what_?” He turned to face her. Only now he noticed that her cheeks lacked the usual pink, excited color. “Already?”

“Before the sun even rose,” Josephine replied, sighing wearily.

“Leliana was supposed to wake us before leaving,” Cullen said, rubbing his temples. He suppose he should be grateful. If this was the only deviation from their plan, if this was all that went wrong, it was more than what Cullen could have hoped for. Still, he had wanted a chance to say—

“Good-byes,” Josephine murmured. She wasn’t holding her quill in her hands so much as gripping it like her life dependent upon it. “We didn’t exchange good-byes. I had wanted to wish them good luck.”

“Well,” he heaved a sigh, and drew some new requisition reports over to him. “We best start preparing for when they get back.”

“I’ll grab us some tea,” Josephine agreed.

* * *

Walk in. Hold your head up high, Lady Trevelyan. You must get your party past the guards—you cannot afford to take no for an answer. Keep Alexius talking; Leliana will take care of the rest. Look out for Fiona—she’s a smart one, the kind that Templars were warned to keep an eye on. If there’s trouble, watch your flanks. _Don’t get distracted_. Follow the plan.  


Brynn repeated the instructions her advisors had given her anytime she felt a nervous twitch of her hands or the uncertain shuffle of her feet. Their words echoing in her mind made her stand up straighter and gave her confidence that she hadn’t known she possessed before walking in to Redcliffe Castle.

“You walk in to my stronghold with your stolen mark—a gift you don’t even understand—and think _you’re_ in control?” Alexis had said to Brynn. “You’re nothing but a mistake.”

Brynn smirked. She could have told him that. To void with it, her family had been grumbling half-heartedly for years that she was nothing but an odd mismatch of mistakes.

But, she thought firmly, _this_ was not a mistake. The fact that someone was standing here, with a mark on their hand that could close the Breach, couldn’t be a mistake. Maybe it shouldn’t have been her with the mark—there were plenty of people better than her who should have survived the Conclave. But Andraste had guided _her_ out of the Fade and she was here now, and she was not going to waste this chance. She would recruit the Mages. She would close the Breach. And then _everyone_ would go home, safe and sound.

When Alexis gave the order to seize her, there was no one left standing. Leliana had succeeded. Just as according to plan.

“Your men are dead, Alexis,” Brynn had said triumphantly, and she felt it. Her voice rang out loudly with unbridled confidence. This was going _right_.

And then there was a flash of green light, and she felt like she was drowning in a pool of ice cold liquid, and she knew that things had gone terribly, terribly _wrong_.

* * *

_Their party is precariously unbalanced_ , Cullen thought for what felt like the millionth time that morning. _Two Mages and an archer?_ What had he been thinking? Obviously nothing if he hadn't realized this flaw earlier.

“There’s a shield in your hands!” Cullen yelled at the nearest recruit. The man jumped at Cullen’s voice and almost dropped the shield he had been holding. “Block with it!”

At least Cassandra knew how to block with a shield properly. But just her, two mages, and an archer? She could become overwhelmed quickly.

“If this man were your enemy,” Cullen said, fixing the grip one of the recruits had on his pommel. “You’d be dead.”

Cassandra would have two barriers. Their Herald would hang back, out of danger, _hopefully_. If the Mages had two barriers on Cassandra, it might be enough if they met trouble.

He moved to the next recruit and adjusted their stance. “Good,” he remarked to the woman who blocked instead of dodging a blow. “Hold your ground.”

Cassandra could hold her ground. Solas probably could too. But their Herald? Cullen tried to not think what trouble she could get in to. But at least Cassandra was with them. She would ensure that everyone returned safely.

"Again," he ordered his recruits. "Parry, block, strike.  _Again_."

* * *

“Shit, ass—no, Andraste’s flaming ass, _where are we_?” Brynn asked.

“Of course!” Dorian said, snapping his fingers. “It’s not simply where, it’s _when._ ” He rounded on her triumphantly as though his words made all the sense in the world.

They didn’t.

Brynn began pacing. “Did we go forward?” she asked, boots quickly becoming soaked in the knee-deep putrid water. “Or did we go back? And how far?”

“Those are _excellent_ questions,” Dorian said, grinning at her. “None of which I know the answer to.”

“Well—can’t you just time travel us back?” Brynn stuttered, waiving her hands desperately. They had to get back. She had to make sure that the others were okay—she knew that Cassandra and Solas were more capable than her, but still, worry gnawed away at her now that their plans seemed to be collapsing.

Dorian gave her a withering look. “ _Fine_ ,” Brynn spat.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get through this,” Dorian assured her. "I happen to be an expert in time travel."

"Great," she murmured absently. She quickened her pace and fell in step next to the Mage. After a moment of hesitation, she pulled her bow from across her back and grabbed an arrow just incase. Just until they found Cassandra and Solas. Surely all together they could figure out what to do.

"Granted," Dorian continued, "Up until this point it was just  _theory—"_

Brynn gripped her bow tighter, trying to peer through the darkness in the halls. "Let's just keep moving forward."

* * *

“Curly, play one game,” Varric said, shaking his head at Cullen. “After that I promise I'll let you fret in peace.”

"I don't fret." Cullen looked at the pack of cards in Varric’s hands, trying to not look sullen. If their Herald had brought him in the party, they would be more balanced if something were to go wrong—but no. His place was _here_ , he reminded himself sternly. He was more use here in Haven _._ He needed to keep his mind clear, to concentrate on the plans that were important, and to make sure that everything was ready for when their Herald returned with whatever news she would bring.

But all the preparations _were_ made. There wasn’t much else he could do but _wait_. And that wait was driving him mad.

He heaved a sigh, and asked hopefully, “Chess instead?”

“Diamondback,” Varric offered as a compromise, shooting a glance at Blackwell. “He won’t play anyway since he lost to Solas.”

 _Maker’s breath_ , Cullen hoped that the Mage’s barriers kept up if Brynn and the others encountered trouble.

* * *

“9:42 Dragon,” Grand Problem Maker _—_ no, Grand  _Enchanter_  Fiona told them. She deserved more than some stupid, childish comment. She had been here. Brynn hadn't.

“Then we’ve missed an entire year,” said Dorian, confirming her fears.

Brynn focused on the red lyrium growing out of Fiona. Is this what had happened in a year? A woman had become more stone than soul? Every time Fiona’s heart beat, every time she took a breath, the red lyrium shivered. It glowed around them, casting strange shadows across the scars that Fiona didn't have a moment ago—no, a _year_ ago.

The lyrium was alive, Fiona was almost dead. The lyrium was growing, stealing the Mage’s life like some sick disease. When Fiona was in pain, it glowed as though it reveled in her misery. It was horrific and it made Brynn want to close her eyes and wish it all away.

A year. How could this have happened in a year when it felt like minutes to her?

“We missed it,” Brynn said, forcing her eyes open, pushing herself to memorize every detail of this dark future, “But they didn’t.”

* * *

“Sir,” stuttered one of the soldiers, looking desperately to his companions for support. “We’ve already re-calibrated the trebuchets twice to your specifications.”

Cullen knew he should stop. He knew he was obsessing at this point. The trebuchets were working perfectly. It was _he_ that wasn’t working right. Without the lyrium or battle to distract him, he felt like he was going to go mad without knowing what was happening at Redcliffe. He felt like he was going mad for worrying so hopelessly and desperately for Cassandra, Solas, Leliana, and _yes_ , he admitted, for their Herald. He worried especially for the little archer with calloused hands.

“Fine,” he barked, “But confirm they are well stocked in the event we need to use them."

* * *

“We have to fix this, Dorian,” Brynn said, staring at the piles of rotting bodies, walls lined with red lyrium, and strange symbols written in blood on the floor. Every room seemed to hold more impossible horrors than the last. But they weren’t impossible, not really. They were real. It was real blood on the torture devices and real bodies in the halls.

This was wrong. This was not how it was supposed to happen. Brynn was supposed to be bait. If anything, she was the one who was supposed to be at most risk. Instead, she had been pushed a year in the future, and everyone else had suffered.

“You’re hurt,” Brynn said, kneeling on the floor, reaching out to Cassandra. They had been through so much together—through the Hinterlands, through Storm Coast, through Val Royeaux. They had shared countless flasks of healing draughts, shivered together in too-thin bedrolls on the mountainside, and laughed over the smutty stories Varric shared over their campfire.

But Brynn hadn’t been there when she was needed the most.

The woman in front of her looked like a shell of her former self—gone was the fierce set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes. It had been replaced with slumped shoulders, a hoarse voice, and eyes tinged red. Cassandra looked _defeated_.

“I am so sorry,” Brynn murmured, holding her friend’s hands in her own through the bars of the prison.

“Can you make it so that none of this ever took place?”  
  
“Yes,” Brynn promised immediately. “I will. We will all go home, back to Haven. I promise.”

* * *

“Cullen," Iron Bull said, "You need to relax." Cullen looked up from his charcoal drawing. He had been absently marking out ways to reorganize the camp with the number of Mages they would have to accommodate. It was dull work, but it kept his hands from shaking.

“This is a serious situation,” Cullen said sternly. He ran his hands through his hair, and he could feel the edges of his locks curl. “We’ve had no contact from Redcliffe. Leliana should have sent a raven by now.”

"Should we begin to make contingency plans?" Josephine asked unsure. "Perhaps I should have begun drafting a response if-if—"

"Don't think about it," Blackwall said. He had stopped pacing and for a moment Cullen's headache was relived. "It's too early to tell."

"Maybe they’re, I don’t know, too busy to send a love note along?” Varric suggested. “It’s only been a day. Give them some time.”

* * *

Brynn searched every cell. Every one. She picked the locks on every closed door she could find. She peered around every dark corner. She stared at the faces of every body they found. There was no Varric. There was no Iron Bull, Sera, Vivienne, or Blackwall. No Josephine. She couldn’t find Cullen.  


Oh Maker, what had happened to them all?

After she found Leliana, her mind told her there was no hope but her heart continued to stubbornly thud whenever Dorian pestered Leliana with questions. But Leliana refused to answer and finally snapped, “You ask, but you don’t want to know. This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was _real_.”

So Brynn asked Cassandra instead. “What happened to them?”

“Josephine contacted all of the nobles she could, but Empress Celene had already been assassinated. Cullen gathered what forces were left and….” Cassandra sighed heavily. “Are you sure you want to know the rest?”  
  
“Yes,” Brynn said immediately.

She wanted to know. She needed to know. Her stomach tied itself in knots, hoping, waiting, until Cassandra finally exhaled, “Josephine and Cullen attacked Redcliffe Castle.”

 _When invariably goes wrong, I—the Inquisition won’t be able to use force to bring you and the others back to safety_.

No, this wasn’t right. Nothing was right about this future, but this especially so. “Cullen said Redcliffe was impenetrable,” she insisted. “Why would they do that? Why would he allow it? It was—he said—I don’t understand.”

“We haven’t heard fighting for months,” Cassandra said. Brynn looked at her hopefully. Maybe they had retreated? It must have meant that Cullen realized his error and had changed his mind. Yes, they must have all retreated to safety, and they were okay. They were probably held out in some city far away and were gathering forces and they were okay and—

”No, Herald,” Solas said softly. “They are either dead or far worse off, as we are.”

“The Elder One often forces those captured to take Red Lyrium.” Cassandra breathed in deeply. “I hope Josephine and Cullen died. I hope they weren’t captured—if they were, wherever they are now, _whatever_ they are now, they are not the people we knew.”

“But—”

“This world is far worse than you understand,” Solas said flatly. “It is foolish to hope for our future. We must make sure none of this comes to pass.”

Brynn had always believed that anything was preferable to death but with the image of Fiona’s body burned in to her mind, with Leliana’s harsh words marring her beautiful voice, with the defeated slump to Cassandra’s shoulders…was that truly the case?

She walked ahead, leaving her companions behind. She tried to remember Josephine as she was—the sharpest of minds with a silver tongue, whose warm smile held more cunning than any master of the Orlesian game. The more she thought of the Ambassador, the more her stomach knotted, and the sicker she felt. Oh, _Josephine_. She was so stubborn in her own way, she would never quit trying to bring people to the Inquisition even when no one was left standing.

Brynn felt her breath become shallow and her throat tighten. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t— _no_. She did not want to think about Cullen. Her hands gripped her bow tighter. She was sure she would falter if she thought about his brown eyes that reminded her of muddy riverbeds back home, and how they were probably tinged red like Cassandra’s were now. She didn’t want to imagine his quiet but commanding voice turned rough by red lyrium. _How could he?_ He had said that attacking Redcliffe was useless. He’d practically promised that he wouldn’t. How could he have gone against his own advice? _Why_? And now he was probably somewhere dead or worse and she just couldn’t bear the thought of never hearing his little snort again.

What had their last moments been like before they lost themselves? They both deserved better than whatever it had been. They deserved more than her foolish thoughts and tears. They deserved action. They deserved to be alive.

“C’mon,” Dorian said quietly, and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. He did not mention the tears running down her cheeks. “Lets keep moving forward.”

* * *

“We’re all concerned,” Josephine said to Cullen at the war table. Her pen was poised above her parchment. It had been for the last half hour, but the Ambassador had not written any words and there had been no further mentions of contingency plans. 

Cullen thumbed one of the lion figurines in his hand, staring across the war map spread out in front of them.

“Leliana is with them too,” Josephine continued. “It…I am not used to being left behind,” she admitted. “I hope they are okay.”  
  
“They will be,” Cullen confirmed.  _They must be_. He tossed the lion figurine in his hand on to the table. It was bent oddly where he had pushed and pulled the metal. It had dug in to his hands, in to his fingers, but the sharp pain it provided was a relief compared to the constant, dull throb of the headache he had. “Cassandra will watch her back. The Herald can handle what the Mages throw at her.”

Josephine tilted her head at him. “You’re speaking more highly of her than I would have expected.”

“She’s changed,” Cullen admitted. “We all have this past month.”

* * *

“We will hold the main door,” Cassandra had said.

“I can’t ask you to do this,” Brynn said, looking between Solas and Cassandra as they stood in the middle of the chamber. They may have thought that they were as good as dead, and maybe they were, but Brynn could not abandon them again. She could not let them die like the others had already—like Josephine. Like Cullen. “Let me stay with you, let me fight.”

“We’re already dead,” Leliana said. Brynn looked away, but the woman gripped Brynn’s forearm so hard that it was painful. “ _Look at us_ ,” she demanded.

Brynn obeyed. She looked at the scars that marred Leliana’s face. She looked at the heaviness that Solas carried. She watched the red haze in Cassandra’s eyes.

This wasn’t _right_. They couldn’t be lost. How could they be so far gone while she stood there whole?

“The only way we live is if this day never comes,” Leliana told her before shoving her away from them.

Brynn stumbled in to Dorian, hands reaching out for her companions who had already turned their backs. She saw the demons throw Cassandra’s and Solas’s bodies as though they were trash, not her treasured friends. Leliana fired arrow after arrow. When she finally fell in battle, Brynn stepped forward. She couldn’t let this happen. She couldn’t stand by like a silent witness. She needed to do _something_. They deserved action.

“You move, and we all die!” Dorian roared at her.

They deserved to _live_. She closed her eyes tightly and let Dorian hold her back, as the last of her friends in this world died, and she vowed none of this would ever happen again.

* * *

“They’re here,” said one of the scouts, bursting in to the war room. “They’ve returned—and they’ve brought the Mages with them.”

Josephine and Cullen exchanged one look before they both dropped all of their reports and ran out of the war room, through the Chantry doors. Cullen could already see a small crowd assembling. His eyes searched shoulder level for a familiar braid of bright blond hair or the frame of a lithe archer.

Cullen heard her laughter first. He turned just in time to see Brynn picked up in the air by Iron Bull, spinning her around once before setting her back on the ground.

The second  her feet touched stone, Brynn tore off after Sera. She tackled the elf with such force that she almost tipped them both over. He could hear Sera exclaim, “Get off, all right? What’s gotten in to you?”  
  
But she didn’t spare a second. Next, she found Blackwall, and gripped his forearms in her hands, and whispered something to him that Cullen couldn’t hear. Blackwall nodded in return.

“Didn’t end in tragedy today, did it?” Varric asked her. Brynn only smiled stiffly.

She was back safely. So were the others. Now was time to get to work. Cullen turned on his heels, intent on walking back to the War Room. He would need to set up more patrols to watch the Mages. He didn’t think that they had enough Templars to assign one to each patrol which meant he’d have to set up new rotations—

His thoughts were interrupted when something soft crashed hard in to him. Strong arms came up around him, gripping him tightly, and he looked down to find that Brynn’s face was pressed against the cold plate of his armor. She held him with her whole body, every inch of her frame against his, fitting neatly in to the crevices of his chest. _Warm_.

“You stupid, stubborn man,” she whispered desperately. What had he done to elicit such a reaction? Cullen wasn’t sure.

He had meant to question her on what the situation in Redcliffe was, but instead the words, “Are you all right?” tumbled out of his mouth with a softness that he did not know his voice possessed.

“I’ll be fine,” she replied in deadened tone. Then she let her arms drop from around him, hands falling to her sides.

“ _No_.” He wanted to know that she was all right; not some false platitude that she gave all the others. He could see—no, he could _feel_ that she was not fine. When he felt her grip loosen, when he felt her beginning to pull away, he gathered his arms up and around her. One of his large hands spanned across the small of her back, and the other gripped her shoulder, holding her gently in place.

His skin felt like it was on fire where it touched hers.

“You will tell me how you are,” he growled at her.

“Ahhhh, is this the Commander you spoke so fondly of?” asked a voice that Cullen didn’t recognize. Brynn took the opportunity to spring away from him, and it was good that she did, because Cullen had not realized he had been holding his breath. He gulped down the cold air as fast as he could, letting it cool the burning in his throat and lungs.

“Dorian, this is Cul—Commander Cullen, the, uh, commander of the Inquisition forces,” Brynn said.

“Good thing you explained, I would have never guessed by the title,” drawled Dorian.

“Is this one of the _Tevinter_ Mages?” Cullen asked, hand gripping the hilt of his sword nervously. Cullen felt the Mages eyes roam over him, then focus on the Templar fabric draped around his armor. He shifted on his feet, uncomfortable with the attention, and the Mage laughed.

“You’ll give your report in the War Room soon?” he asked Brynn, ignoring the Mage.

She nodded. “I want to say hello to everyone first. It was…” He watched her chew on her bottom lip for a moment, and then as though remembering that she was being watched, she stopped immediately. “I just need to see everyone again first.”

“Don’t worry, Commander,” Dorian said, grinning at him in a positively lecherous way. “We’ll be sure to _debrief_ you soon.”

“Maker preserve us,” Cullen groaned. He heard a small choke of a giggle escape from Brynn—it wasn’t her usual loud laugh, but his face softened all the same.

* * *

Brynn gave her report to her advisors that evening. It was thorough when it needed to be — she had been practicing what to say in her mind since they had rode back from Redcliffe. She explained the demon army, the assassination in Orlais, all of it in an even tone with her shoulders squared.

She did _not_ detail the ruined castle, the sky permanently turned green, or the way the red lyrium had corrupted everyone and everything beyond recognition. No, those memories were hers to hold, and she would not burden anyone else with the knowledge of what could happen. Had happened.

Overall, her advisors seemed to approve of her decisions despite their disagreements over the Mages, and Brynn tried to wrap that rare feeling of accomplishment around her to stave off the cold memories.

It did not work. The shadows in the Chantry played on Leliana's face in such a way that it mimicked the scars Brynn had seen earlier. When Josephine talked about contacting the appropriate nobles, she saw the woman dead with eyes rolled back in her head. As Cullen spoke, she could almost hear the deep timbre of his voice changed and made rougher by red lyrium and pain.

She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Dorian fixed her with a glance, willing her to not think about _it_.

“No rest for the wicked,” Cullen had murmured, and there was a smile on his face directed at her that she had trouble returning.

There would be no rest. She had trouble sleeping after the Conclave—and she didn’t even _remember_ that. No, her dreams would be haunted by the memories of the future where her home in Ferelden and family in Haven had been destroyed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an early update because you are awesome and you make my day. :D

“Will the Herald be joining us?” Leliana asked.

Cassandra had entered the war room. She assumed her usual space, leaving the area to her right that their Herald would have normally occupied empty. She placed her hands on the table, metal that covered her fingertips wrapping sharply in Cullen’s ears, and surveyed the map in front of them. “I am allowing her to rest.”

Leliana frowned, her face full of hard lines. “You are coddling her.”

“I am doing no such thing,” came Cassandra’s immediate, crisp reply. Her lips pursed dangerously at the Left Hand of the Divine. “We can spare her one meeting.”

Leliana made a dismissive noise and turned her attention to the map. Josephine sighed wearily and began scribbling on her parchment. Cullen, however, cleared his throat and asked tentatively, “Is she all right?”

The sound of Josephine’s quill scratching immediately stopped. Cullen carefully avoided looking at their Spymaster, and rubbed the back of his neck. It was acceptable to inquire after one of their agents. Josephine and Leliana had done so countless of times. Void take it, they’d asked after their Herald at least a dozen times. This was no different.

He wished Leliana would stop grinning at him.

“Well, is she?” he asked again.

Cassandra’s face was downcast, her expression unsure, but she said in a firm tone, “She has assured me that she is fine.”  
  
Cullen snorted. That meant less than nothing. Their Herald had told him the same a few days ago when she returned from Redcliffe. He tried not to think of how easily his hand spanned across her whole back, how his fingers had twitched and tingled all during their meeting afterwards. She hadn’t even laughed at the stupid joke he made (No rest for the wicked? _Really_? Who even said that anymore?). It was another sign that Redcliffe was not sitting right with her. She _always_ laughed at every joke he made, even though he knew that they were hardly ever funny and sounded excessively dumb.

He had lingered outside the war room after their meeting. He had expected her—no, that wasn’t the right word, he couldn’t really expect anything of the small archer—he had _wanted_ her to seek him out after their meeting. But she had marched past him, Dorian in toe, both murmuring under their breaths to one another. She hadn’t spared him a glance.

“Let’s review the pertinent reports,” Cassandra said. “I will update her this evening.”

And even though their Herald was only an agent, even though all four of them discussed what actions to take, not one decision was finalized. Not one marker moved on the map spread out before them.

“There is one more issue to discuss,” Josephine added before they all left. “Varric kindly shared—”

Cassandra murmured darkly under her breath. Cullen’s lips twitched. He glanced to Cassandra’s right hand side, to meet their Herald’s eyes. Every time Varric’s name was brought up, Cassandra _always_ made the same disgusted noise low in her throat. On every occasion, Cullen and Brynn’s eyes would meet. She would bite her lip hard to stop from giggling, and the edges of his eyes would crinkle in humor.

But she wasn’t here today. He didn’t get to share a look with her. He was surprised by the pang of disappointment he felt.

“—a few dwarven merchants who are willing to provide us with the lyrium we need,” Josephine continued.

“That’s unusual,” remarked Cullen. “The dwarves tend to work exclusively with the Chantry.”

“Apparently,” Leliana explained, “The Templars have procured lyrium from other sources. Some of the merchant families are willing to work with the Inquisition. For an exorbitant price, of course. ”

“What are these ‘other sources’?” Cullen asked sharply. He’d heard of such sources in Kirkwall. Usually they consisted of nothing more than lyrium dust shared among addicts. None of it ever amounted to the regular supply of lyrium a Templar would receive—that _he_ had received before leaving Kirkwall.

“My agents are looking in to it,” Leliana replied. “I have nothing of substance yet.”

“The dwarves will be delivering the lyrium soon, and Solas is already training the Mages on their part in closing the Breach.” Josephine finished the last scribble on her parchment with a flourish. “I think that concludes our business for now.”

Cullen gathered his reports and fell in to line after Josephine and Leliana. Usually he would wait for their Herald to gather her own reports, and they would leave together, continuing whatever matters were discussed in the war council. As she was not there, there was no reason for him to linger.

Before he walked through the door, however, Cassandra’s voice halted him.

“A word, Commander?”

She wanted a word. After the topic of lyrium was brought up. Cullen wasn’t a betting man, but he was sure what this conversation would consist of. “Yes, Seeker?”

“Regarding the lyrium,” she began.

“I am not a child, Cassandra,” Cullen interrupted in a low tone. “I am able to control myself.”

What did she think he would do? Sneak in to the Inquisition’s stores in the middle of the night like some drunk unable to control himself? Gorge himself on that sweet liquid that even now, even more than a _month_ since his last draught, he could taste clearly? He could feel the clean, thick liquid coating his tongue, slipping down his throat, warming and cooling him and making him feel full and whole.

It was a lie, he reminded himself. Lyrium and what it made him feel was a _lie_. He would not be bound to that life of half-truths wrapped in Chantry propaganda anymore. He wanted nothing to do with broken circles and friends dying in the streets. He wasn’t whole. He was more than half broken. But he was at least _him_. Once he broke the chains, no one would have a claim on him. His body, mind, and soul would be his own. He only needed to endure, to persevere, and he was sure on the other side of it all he’d find parts of him that weren’t broken.

“I had only sought to offer taking coordination of lyrium for you,” Cassandra said quietly. “If you wished.”

Maker’s breath, did he wish it. Did he ever wish that the whole situation was as easy as just avoiding lyrium, like if he just focused ahead he could pretend it didn’t exist. No, the withdrawals themselves were a constant reminder of what he refused to let himself have.

Besides, Cullen would not cower. He would not skirt along the edges and hid. He would _conquer_ this addiction, and he would endure any of the trials and tribulations that came along with it. He would own them, and they would become part of the person he was trying to reclaim.

“I do not wish it,” Cullen said.

Cassandra nodded. “If you need anything, you only need to ask.”

Cullen wouldn’t and Casandra seemed to know as well. She sighed at him. “I’ll be fine, Cassandra,” Cullen reassured her.

“Hm,” she murmured, leaving him in the Chantry, “You are the second person who has told me that today, and I am even _less_ convinced when it comes from you.”

_Enough_. There was work to do; preparations to be made. He successfully left the Chantry without being dragged in to another conversation with Mother Giselle or Madame de Fere and was intent on returning to the ever mounting pile of work on his makeshift desk.

He caught sight of their Herald. Her arms were crossed over her chest, hips cocked to one side. She wore an inpatient look on her face. There was something that looked like dirt or herbs smeared across her cheeks.

Cullen slowed his pace.

“Here’s a thought,” he could hear Dorian say furiously to Brynn, and something akin to protectiveness rose in Cullen’s chest, “Do try to focus on reality. As far as any one is concerned, none of that happened.”

Cullen watched her kick the rocks on the ground. They bounced off one of the wooden cabins loudly, and she jumped at the noise like an animal frightened of its own shadow. “But it _did_ ,” he heard her insist. “Didn’t you listen to Leliana? They suffered. And it’s—”

“ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” the Mage swore, “If you say it’s your fault one more time I will lose my mind.”

There was silence, and Cullen glanced over at the two. The shorter woman stood toe-to-toe with the Mage. He seemed annoyed, but Cullen had learned that usually when people showed their annoyance with their Herald she would snap back with just as much force. It had happened to Cullen on more than one occasion. 

“But it is,” she said, tilting her head up to face the man. “It _is_ my fault.”

“Of all the—for the hundredth time, _it never happened_.” Dorian grabbed Brynn’s hands and held them tightly. “I know it wasn’t easy for you. But we came home safely, you accomplished all of the Inquisition’s goals, and we saved the day. The day was saved. _Literally_. All that’s left are _dreams_.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t understand,” Brynn said, “But the people we left behind, they were my friends.” She took in a gulp of air as though trying to still herself, but the breath was shuddering and it shook her shoulders.

Dorian dropped her hands. “Yes, one of which brutally murdered one of _my_ friends in front of us.”

Brynn sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Thank you for trying to speak with me, Dorian,” she said with a formality that Cullen was not used to hearing. “I promised Adan I would help him prepare more potions.”

Cullen watched her go. She spun around, the heel of her foot digging in to the dirt, before she strode off to the Apothecary cabin.

“You can stop lurking,” Dorian announced as soon as she had left.

“I wasn’t—I don’t—” Cullen frowned at the Mage. “What were you two discussing?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Dorian looked at him in surprise. “I had rather thought that she—well, never mind. She did not detail everything we saw in her reports.”

“Yes, she does have a habit of leaving pertinent information out,” Cullen remarked dryly.

“Are all southerners as dour as her? We returned victorious,” Dorian said. “It’s an important fact that she seems to have trouble getting through her thick skull.”

“Her skull isn’t—” Cullen stopped short. No, that wasn’t right. Brynn’s skull _was_ thick. She was stubborn and once she made a decision, she stuck to it. But it was different when someone else was calling her thick headed. That feeling in his chest akin to protectiveness reared again. He pushed it down and asked instead, “I know the details of the assassination, the demon army, but what was left out? What was it like?”

“Green. Dim light. Red. It smelled…intolerable.” Dorian shivered but just as quickly as Cullen saw the movement, it passed. “Much like my family’s last Wintersend party. Come, I’ll join you for a walk.”

Cullen hesitated. He had a lot of work left to do. His hand instinctively flexed on the pommel of his sword. Seeing the movement, Dorian reached out and touched Cullen’s arm. It was only a brush of his fingers against his shirt. Cullen couldn’t even feel the touch, not really, not through the layers of steel, leather, and fabric he wore. But in his mind, he heard himself hiss _Mage_ and he clamped his mouth shut to keep the words from coming out.

He flinched.

Dorian did not mention Cullen’s reaction. He only withdrew his arm, let Cullen make the first step, and said in a calm voice, “I’ll tell you the rest of what we saw, Commander.”

* * *

Adan grumbled loudly at Brynn’s presence in his apothecary, but the truth was, without his apprentice to help, the man was drowning in work. There were too many herbs that needed to be cut, too many poultices that needed to be mixed, and preparing potions was one skill that Brynn had. The Inquisition would need as many potions as possible, lyrium and otherwise, for the upcoming battle.

Battle. She winced. A month ago, the word _battle_ had meant arguing with her mother and sister-in-law about how she would _not_ be attending such-and-so’s ball. Maybe a battle could be her waiting in the woods while she searched the horizon for a rabbit or deer to cross her path. Now, battle was just that. It was a small war. A little crusade. A skirmish on the Storm Coast. A battle was holding her breath, keeping her bow at ready, narrowing her eyes at a target, then killing someone and walking away with her companions to fight another day.

It wasn’t really the idea of battle that was keeping her up at night. It wasn’t even the idea that she _wouldn’t_ walk away from a battle. No, what had kept her awake the past couple of nights was the knowledge of what would happen to _others_ if the Inquisition didn’t succeed, if she was unable to close the Breach.

No matter how many times Dorian told her, failure wasn’t some far off possibility. It was a reality—granted, it was one that was locked away in a future that didn’t exist anymore, but for a moment it had been just as real as the knife in Brynn’s hands or the herbs between her fingers.

Adan growled at her that she needed to take a break. There was no arguing with the Apothecarian, so she brushed her hands on her pants, and exited the cabin. She made sure to arrange her face in a pleasant smile. Madame de Fer had mentioned it was important to keep up appearances. Hiding her emotions was not Brynn’s strong suit, but she tried because she knew there were more important things than her for people to worry about.

“I thought the text rather dry, to be honest,” Brynn could hear Dorian say outside of the Apothecary. He was in the spot he had claimed as his own, just to her right. “I thought Chevalier’s were supposed to be more exciting? You know, handsome men astride horses, unsheathing large swords and all that?”

Brynn heard an unmistakable, dismissive snort. She would recognize that sound anywhere. _Cullen_. She shrunk back in to the safety of the cabin. He would surely see through the pleasant smile on her face. He _always_ seemed to know how she was feeling. Whereas the others had brushed off her hugs, her shriek of laughter as just a quirk of her personality, he had seen that she was upset. He’d ignored her protest that she was fine. When she had thrown her arms around him, so grateful that he was alive, he had held her. _Stilled_ her. For a moment, she had been able to catch her breath, and it admittedly had made the next few hours of recounting the dark future she saw easier.

But afterwards? Afterwards, she was embarrassed and unsure. She didn’t like how her face felt warm when she thought about how he held her. She didn’t like the squirm in her stomach when she heard his snort. It wasn’t anything she wanted to think about.

“That’s what Orlais would have you believe,” she could hear Cullen say, “But any half decent Ash Warrior and their Mabari—”

“Ash _what_?”

“Ash warrior.” Cullen sighed impatiently. “They’re mentioned in the other history book I lent you—which, by the way, I expect back—”

Brynn closed the door of the cabin. Adan shot her an annoyed look, but then gestured to another pile of herbs that needed to be cut.

That night, when her fingers were sore but her mind refused to _still,_ when she could no longer take laying in her barren cabin, staring up at the ceiling, Brynn walked. She began a solitary patrol around the lake. It was cold—much colder than the air in Ostwick. It stung her nose and lungs. It licked at her face, making her pale skin red. Her feet sunk in to the inches of snow, chilling her toes in the soft, leather boots she wore.

And then she encountered Cullen on the footpath and _nothing_ felt cold anymore.

It wasn’t the first time she had run across the man. In her early days after the Conclave (Andraste’s ass, had that really been a whole month ago?), she’d seen him wandering the paths. She’d always smiled brightly at him, said hello, but half the time he only glowered her in response and continued his silent vigil. After Val Royeaux, he at least started giving her a nod of acknowledgment.

Tonight, though, when she ran across him and she said in the most chipper tone she could manage, “Hullo, Commander,” expecting him to nod at her and continue on his path, he stopped walking.

Commander Cullen actually _stopped_. He stopped right beside her, where their bodies crossed one another on the footpath. He turned his head and looked at her. His brown eyes focused on her face, and she tried to keep still, but she couldn’t. She was always a bundle of energy that even the cold couldn’t dampen. She twiddled her toes in her boots and brushed her hair back from her face. Still, his eyes stared at her, lingering on her chapped lips, the paleness of her cheeks, the way her heavy-lidded eyes sagged with sleep. She knew that he was seeing all of it, and she had nothing to hide behind.

“What?” she asked, voice croaking.

He was appraising her, she was sure of it. Probably wanted to make sure that she was fit for duty, fit to close the Breach, or something like that. Well, she _was_. She tilted her head a little higher. His cheeks lifted at that, a smile on his face if not on his lips, and he said, “Hello, Herald.”

And then he turned on his heels with military precision and fell in to step besides her. “It’s a nice night out.”

“No, it’s not. It’s _freezing_ ,” she laughed. The sound felt weird to make. It died on her lips almost immediately. Was this—was it _okay_ to laugh? Was it all right to do so when there was so much left to do in the next few days? If they didn’t close the Breach, so much could— _would_ go wrong. So many lives would be ruined. She had seen it.

Cullen laughed too. It startled her, and Brynn looked at him sharply. Cullen was…laughing? Cullen, who worked tirelessly in to the night. Cullen, who always read reports before the war council meeting. Cullen, who had heard her first breathless report after Redcliffe was _laughing_. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Her face relaxed. She felt the stress that she carried in her shoulders began to ebb. He nodded at her, then taking a deep breath, he began to talk.

Cullen talked endlessly that night, both of them walking step in step with each other. He murmured about troop movements he was planning. He talked about requisition orders that were waiting to be filled. He explained the training exercises he took new recruits through. It was the most Brynn had _ever_ heard him talk. It was just what she needed without ever realizing it.

She focused on his words, walking next to him around the lake, and she felt her mind _stop_. She felt her heartbeat still, just as she had felt still when he had wrapped his arms around her. The content of his conversation didn’t matter, but what did mater was that someone was here, standing next to her, murmuring to her about things that stopped her mind wandering to the _what ifs._

When Cullen spoke, she didn’t notice the cold. She forgot about it until it was very late and the moon began to hang low in the sky again.

Brynn yawned. Cullen stopped on the path. There was a grin on his face—not just in his brown eyes. It played on his scarred lips and it was etched in the tiny laugh lines around his eyes that she studied each time he smiled. “Finally tired?” he asked.

“I think I could sleep,” she said honestly.

The smile on his face became wider. “Then let me walk you back to your cabin.”

She let him, and that night when Brynn slept, her dreams were bearable.

* * *

“You seem fidgety tonight,” Brynn said to him. “Is something a-matter?”

Five days. He had met her on this exact path outside of Haven five days in a row. He found himself…looking forward to it. Yes, he would admit that. Cullen looked forward to their walks.

He’d even worked the meetings in to his schedule. After dinner, he would review tomorrow’s patrol schedule and make any necessary adjustments. Dorian would usually stop by, and he and the Mage would discuss books for precisely forty-five minutes. Then Cullen would work on the mounds of paperwork piled on his desk in his tent until there was the shift in the late night patrols. Only then would Cullen stride out his tent and find Brynn in the exact same spot he’d first walked with her five nights ago.

She was very punctual. Surprisingly so. Cullen wondered if maybe she had worked their nightly walks in to her own rituals. But, then again, he doubted their Herald even kept to a schedule.

“ _Cullen_ ,” she repeated. “I said, is something wrong?”

“Uh,” he cleared his throat. “No, Lady Trevelyan, I’m only thinking about tomorrow.”

He was, in a way. He was thinking about all the lyrium the Mages would use to close the Breach, and how it was a mere twenty feet away from his tent. He thought about how no one would notice if one bottle was missing. One bottle wouldn’t make a difference tomorrow. He wasn’t even going to _drink_ it. He would just take it and…what? Hold it? Hoard it? Cradle it? Like some addict? His chest fluttered hopefully at the thought and he felt sick.

“I’m not worried about it,” Brynn continued. He tried to concentrate on her words. He tried to not think about how lyrium warmed him when it was freezing in Ferelden, or how it had also cooled him during Kirkwall’s hot summers. “I mean, of course I’m nervous. Adan nearly kicked me out of his cabin today when I was cutting up herbs because I was making a right mess of it. But I’m not _worried_.”

“You’re not?” Cullen asked because it seemed the right thing to say. He clenched his fists at his side. The leather of his gloves was tight around his knuckles.

She shook her head and smiled at him. “I’ve seen all the work that you, Josephine, and Leliana have put in to this. If I didn’t have faith in the Maker, I’d at least have to have faith in you. All of you,” she added.

“I hope your faith is not misplaced,” he murmured. Maker knew he had misplaced his faith in others before. Meredith. The Templars. The Chantry.

He did not want to add himself to that list. Cullen’s jaw clenched.

“Hey,” she said softly. Cullen looked at her. “You’ve done all that you can. Now it’s time for me, Solas, Cassandra, and the Mages to take over. We won’t fail. I won’t let Redcliffe happen ever again.”

They hadn’t talked about Redcliffe at all during their walks. That was not the point of them. He had not sought her out on the footpath that first night to sate his own curiosity. He had wanted to…to comfort her. He guessed that was the right word, but it felt stiff and insincere in his mouth. Dorian had been the one to suggest that Cullen help their Herald. So, like a blathering idiot, he’d found her on the footpath and babbled about anything that came to mind.

He _hoped_ it had helped her.

“I thought about writing a letter home, you know. To Ostwick, I mean,” she continued. He was sure if he just concentrated on what she said, it would stifle the thoughts of lyrium in the back of his mind. “But it seemed kind of morbid, you know? What would I even say? Sorry that I made it out of the Conclave just to muck up closing the Breach, hope you don’t mind all the demons, Andraste perserve us all? I know you say to expect the worst—”

“Don’t listen to what I say,” Cullen said hastily.

She smirked. “You probably should have told me that before Cassandra introduced you as one of my advisors. Did she tell you the plan tomorrow, by the way? We’re—”

“Can we speak of something else?” Cullen asked.

She tilted her head to the side. Some of her hair was loose, as usual, and it flopped over one of her eyes. Her _eyes_. How had he only noticed now that there were spears of blue the same shade of lyrium in them? He had thought that they were silver, gray like an approaching storm, colorless, but if he looked close enough they were so much more brilliant than that.

Cullen gulped and turned away. He didn’t know why, but the thought of associating lyrium with her eyes made him feel sicker than sneaking some of that liquid from the Inquisition’s stores. “Anything else,” he said. “Just—let’s not talk about tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she agreed, and she spent the rest of the night telling him all the advantages and disadvantages of every possibly material one could make a bow out of. And then she explained the perfect way to trap a fennec. And  _then_ she talked about the ocean next to Ostwick, which should have been the least interesting of topics because Cullen hated the ocean, but he had enjoyed her wide grin when she talked about her home the most. 

Cullen hung on to Brynn’s every word, and that night when she walked him back to his tent, it was a little easier to ignore the soft hum of the lyrium stored two cabins over.


	9. Chapter 9

For all the doubts he’d had about her, all the times he questioned her judgment, all the moments that she annoyed and infuriated him, she had done what no one else could. Their Herald had closed the Breach.

“Solas has confirmed that the heavens are scarred, but the Breach is closed,” Cassandra said, standing next to Cullen, surveying the party from the sidelines.

Cullen’s eyes scanned the crowd and settled on a bright spot of blond hair. Brynn was sitting in between Solas and Vivienne. Vivienne had her nose in the air, and she was clearly lecturing their Herald. Cullen could tell it was a lecture because their Herald was doing a poor job of pretending to listen—just as she did whenever he lectured her. Her eyes roamed the party, her feet made patterns in the dirt, and she seemed completely uninterested. That was until Solas muttered something. He smiled smugly, Vivienne glared, and Brynn’s shoulders began to shake with barely contained laughter.

“She’s become quite remarkable,” Cassandra added.

“She’s…” Cullen trailed off, frowning. She was what? A month ago he would have known. A month ago he would have called her a naive, young girl who had no business traversing the Hinterlands with some of their best warriors. A month ago, he would have sworn that she and her inability to take action would be the Inquisitions downfall. A month ago he thought that her only use was the mark on her hand.

Now any of the words that came to mind when he thought of Brynn Trevelyan did not seem fit.

He shuffled on his feet, uncomfortable.

“You should speak with her,” Cassandra said. He felt her place her hands on him and push him forward. “Leliana and Josephine have already given their congratulations.”

He heard Brynn’s laughter again, and he turned to watch just as Iron Bull grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up and over him. Her legs kicked wildly in the air, and she thumped the Qunari’s back with small fists. Iron Bull walked her over to the dancing and settled her on the ground.

Dorian reached out to Brynn and grabbed her hands. Brynn’s head was shaking, but Dorian tugged her insistently, and they began to dance. She tripped over her feet, falling in to the Mage’s chest. He straightened her, laughed along, and then they began trying to dance again.

“I wouldn’t want to disturb her,” Cullen said, hesitating.

“I am sure she wouldn’t think it was an intrusion,” Cassandra told him. There was a small, almost soft smile perched on her lips. He frowned at her.

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Cullen added. “Congratulations on stopping the horde of demons from spilling across Thedas doesn’t cut it, does it?”

Cassandra shrugged. “Perhaps not. But I think she would appreciate a word from _you_ all the same.”

His heart beat was coming quicker now, and there was a warmth that started in his stomach and spread to his toes and fingertips every time he heard Brynn’s laugh. Her eyes were wide, her mouth opened in an unrestrained smile. She was dancing poorly, tripping over her own feet, but she looked happy.

Cullen realized, despite all of his fumbling attempts the past week to comfort her that now was the first time she had looked happy since Redcliffe.

She rose her hands and waived frantically at Cassandra and Cullen, biding them to join her.

Cullen took a step backwards, but to his surprise, Cassandra walked forward. He watched the Seeker let the smaller, younger woman grab her arms. They smiled at one another, and Brynn tugged her, trying to draw her in to the circle of dancers. Cassandra shook her head, but Brynn only giggled and tugged at her harder. He watched the two unlikely friends. Around Brynn, the sadness and duty Cassandra carried on her shoulders began to dissolve. Around Brynn, her laughter came more freely.

Cullen found himself grinning at the two. Could he not say the same for himself as he had for Cassandra? He found he smiled more around their Herald, and his laughter came harder. It was easier to ignore the burdens he felt weighed down with when she talked with him. It was easier to push away thoughts of lyrium when they walked together. Was this what it felt like to have a friend? Was that what this lightness was?

“Commander,” one of his lieutenants greeted him.

“At ease,” Cullen replied, turning around. The man’s face was pale. “What is it?” Cullen asked.

“Some of our scouts—they’ve gone missing.” The soldier gulped. “And there are lights on the other side of the mountain. Lots of them. But without the scouts, we don’t know—”

Cullen knew. Cullen knew what this was. It was too much to hope that they could have a moment of peace. If scouts were missing, if there were lights appearing on the mountain, it only meant one thing.

“Sound the alarm,” Cullen ordered, unsheathing his sword.

He watched Brynn spinning around, hair tumbling from her braids, holding on to Seeker Cassandra. He hesitated, not wanting to ruin her happiness, not wanting to shatter the illusion that the Inquisition’s work was done.

But every moment delayed could mean the difference between one or twenty lives lost.

Cullen hoisted his sword and yelled the words, “Forces approaching! _To arms_!”

* * *

For a moment, it seemed that life would return to normal. For a moment, Brynn felt happy. She felt so happy that she danced, and laughed, and held hands with strangers. Redcliffe had been dark. It was a memory that would haunt her for the rest of her life, but it was worth it. It was worth it all to close the Breach and save the blasted day.

But when it was quiet, when she sat next to Blackwall, when Solas would murmur an elven phrase, or when Dorian would bump shoulders with her and smile, Brynn’s mind wandered to what would happen all the days after tonight.

Before, the idea of taking her Chantry vows filled her with a sense of peace. It had been the trajectory of her life before the Conclave exploded. It had been what she wanted at the time, hadn’t it? But even if the Chantry would have her, blasphemer and heretic that she was, did she really want that that anymore? Could she truly go back to a life of clasped hands and silent prayers in half empty Chantries? She wasn’t even sure that she believed in the Chantry anymore. How could she after she’d seen the consequences of their inaction, their lack of guidance, and their shoddy decisions?

Even if there were no Chantry vows waiting for her back home, there was still that estate on a hill that smelled of horses and seawater. There was still her family—her brothers, nieces, nephews, parents…she had to return to them, right?

But in Redcliffe, when she had fought to get back home, she hadn’t been thinking of Ostwick. She’d been thinking of this freezing place nestled amongst Ferelden mountains. She had been thinking of Haven.

The thought of leaving the friends she had made behind caused her breath to catch. She would miss hearing Varric’s stories and Cassandra’s rare laugh. She’d miss asking Solas about his trips in the Fade and then Sera complaining about elf-y nonsense. She would miss the smile Josephine would try to hide when Brynn made fun of Orlesians. She’d miss pestering Leliana with her million questions about archery, bards, and what it was like to save the world. She’d miss her quiet conversations with her Commander at night while the whole camp slept.

She realized, with a painful tug in the deepest parts of her heart, she would miss that _most_.

The Chantry’s bells tolling broke through her thoughts.

She turned to Cassandra, a question on her face, but the other woman was already unsheathing her own sword in answer. The laughter that had been on her face had disappeared, and it was replaced by…fear? Oh no. No, no, _no_. If the bells worried Cassandra then something really bad must be happening.

“We must get to the gates,” Cassandra said. She looked at Brynn to lead the way, but Cassandra hadn’t needed to wait. Brynn was already turning on her feet and hurrying towards the gate. She glanced behind her, and saw that not only Cassandra, but their other companions were following her steps.

“Cullen?” Cassandra asked, jogging towards the Commander. Brynn scrambled up one of the wooden platforms high above, trying to get a better vantage point. She peered into the darkness. All she could make out were little spots of light dotting the mountain. The snow in the air was making it difficult to see. Past _that’s a lot of lights_ , Brynn couldn’t get an accurate count.  
  
“One Watchguard reporting. It’s a massive force. The bulk over the mountain,” Cullen said, pointing forward with his sword.

“Under what banner?” Josephine asked.

“None,” he replied swiftly.

Brynn’s stomach sank. No banners? She would have thought that if someone was trying to teach the Inquisition a lesson, to make a show of force, they would be holding banners proudly. It’s what her eldest brother in Ostwick would have done, and, anyway, it wasn’t like his attitude was that different than other nobles’.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” a voice on the other side of the door announced. Before the others could stop her, she dropped from her perch on to the ground and threw open the main door. A frazzled looking boy stared back at her.

“The Templars come to kill you,” explained the young man. Brynn turned to Cullen. He had followed her outside of the gates, pommel of his sword gripped in his hands.

“Templars?” Cullen’s confused expression mirrored her own for a moment, but it was quickly replaced by anger. “Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the Mages? Attacking blindly?”  
  
“The Red Templars went to the Elder One. He knows you. You know him. You took his Mages.” _Well, shit_ , Brynn thought. `“He’s very angry that you took his Mages.”

Brynn tried to keep the panic from showing in her voice. There were others watching her—more people had followed her out of the gate. She needed to stay calm, to not show fear, but the Elder One had been the man behind Redcliffe. He had been the man who destroyed the world in the future she saw. If he was here…She rounded on her Commander, and almost shrieked, “Cullen, give me a plan. _Anything_!”

“Haven is no fortress.” She watched him frown deeply, and she could see his mind working as he ran through different scenarios, weighing the pros and cons, right before her eyes. If anyone could come up with a plan, something to make this survivable, Cullen could. She just knew it.

Finally, he said, “If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle.” He looked around, and when his eyes settled on the trebuchets, his lips twitched in to a satisfied smirk. “Herald, get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can.”

“Cassandra, Solas, Dorian,” Brynn said, turning to her companions while Cullen gave orders to the rest of the Inquisition. His loud, booming, _commanding_ voice echoed through her ears. She fed off of that confidence, giving her strength, and she rattled off instructions to her own companions. “Please—come with me. The rest of you, help Commander Cullen however you can—”

“Inquisition, with the Herald!” Brynn heard Cullen yell next to her. Damnit, _no_ , she thought. They needed to protect the people of Haven. But it was too late, because Cullen was already raising his sword and yelling, “For your life! For all of us!”

And so the fight began.

* * *

Cullen prowled the front gate, directing the Inquisition’s forces. Young recruits in polished armor rushed past him. Mages with staffs raised followed. And out in front of the gates, they clashed loudly with Templars who had years of experience on even Cullen’s best recruits and who could dissolve a spell with a wave of a hand and a draught of lyrium.

It would be a bloodbath if the trebuchets weren’t armed. He was glad he had sent some of their forces with Brynn. Cullen may have had confidence in her ability to close rifts, but to battle? To kill people? He was sure she’d become quickly overpowered. _Especially_ with Samson heading the army.

“A shield that blocks a sword, not bloodied, not broken, not _blue_ , two sides of the same coin,” Cole began murmuring. Cullen tried to ignore the boy—whatever he said sounded like nonsense—and he turned to the companions that Brynn had left behind. She should have taken more with her.

“I need archers around the perimeter,” Cullen said, pointing to the ladders already set up. Sera immediately took off. Varric patted his crossbow and followed. Cullen yelled after them, “If anything looking like a Templar with red growing out of it approaches that wall, I want it shot!”

“Vivienne,” he said, glancing out in to the field. “Can you organize some of the Circle Mages to set up barriers? Particularly near those trebuchets? Blackwall, they will need cover. ”

“It will be simple enough for us, darling,” Cullen heard Vivienne say, but before he could respond both Blackwall and Vivienne had left.

Cullen heard the first trebuchet fire. It was a good thing he had them calibrated and armed last week. It was a good sign—it meant that they still had a chance to survive this, but he wouldn’t get himself get too hopeful. Not yet. Samson would not make this fight easy.

“Sir,” said one of the soldiers, running up to him. “The Red Templars—a few of them—” the man leaned forward to catch his breath. “One of the walls has fallen; they’re coming through.”

Cullen was about to take off in that direction, he already had his sword unsheathed and went to pull his shield off of his back, when Iron Bull stopped him. “I’ve got it. I’ll take the Chargers with me.”

Cullen nodded. There was another loud noise, and the second trebuchet went off. The snow rolled down the mountainside, burying their enemy _—the Templars_. But there would be time to puzzle over their actions later. Brynn had bought them time they desperately needed and Cullen did not intend for it to go to waste. He needed to organize their remaining forces and see the others to safety.

He had just turned around, was just giving an order to begin to pull back, when he heard it. It was inhuman, surely the stuff of nightmares. It was a high screech that pierced his eardrums. It shook the ground. It was accompanied by a flap of wings.

It was a dragon.

“ _Move!”_ Cullen roared to those soldiers standing nearby. “ _Now_!”

Their remaining forces scattered, tripping over their own feet, tripping over _bodies_. The air was filled with smoke that stung Cullen’s eyes, his ears rang with the sounds of pain and that damned dragon’s roar.

Trebuchets laid in ruins, men bled out in the field, and there was a group of apprentice Mages cowered against the wreckage of something. It was Kirkwall. It was Ferelden. It was Kinloch Hold all over again.

 _No_ , he thought, focusing on the apprentices. No, it wasn’t like the Circles. His hands found his shield, pulled it off of his back, and he pushed his forearm through the straps. He was not a boy frozen with fear and this was _not_ Kinloch Hold.

It was stupid. It was a stupid idea. He didn't care. Cullen may have been many things, he may have given many orders that he regretted, but he would not stand by an open gate and watch people who placed their trust in the Inquisition die. Mage or no, Templar or Commander, it mattered not.

Cullen ran, armor clanking, shield angled down and away from his face.

He crashed in to the first Templar with so much force, all muscle encased in steel, that the other man was knocked to the ground. Cullen barely had enough time to readjust his shield before another Templar went to strike him with his weapon. Cullen blocked the blow, then lowered his shield just so, creating an opening too good for the man to pass up.

The Templar lunged forward predictably. Cullen grinned.

It was an easy blow to dodge. Cullen let the man overbalance, then knocked him over the head with the pommel of his sword. Cullen tossed his sword up, letting it go briefly, and twisted his wrist so he caught the hilt. Sword righted, he put his full weight behind it, and pushed the blade into the creature’s chest.

There was a sick, crunching sound. Blood thickened with red lyrium poured out of the Templar’s body and over Cullen’s hands, making them slick. He pulled his sword out of what was left of the man’s chest.

The Templar he had crashed in to earlier was already recovering. There were more approaching, too. Cullen rolled his shoulders and dug his heels in to the ground, accepting another blow from one of the mad creatures. He tilted his head and watched the three apprentices sneak behind the now distracted Templars towards the safety of the front gates.

 _Good_ , Cullen thought, teeth gritted. He raised his sword again and swung wide, hitting one of the Templars in the shoulder. The Red Templar dropped his sword, but he was laughing at Cullen. His eyes were crimson and his back was hunched over, heavy red crystals weighing it down. The Red Templar went to grab Cullen’s shield, tried to pry it out of his hands, but Cullen hacked away at his arm. It didn’t matter. The Red Templar kept laughing.

Cullen realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach that this man, this person that Cullen would have once called brother, was now a creature that didn’t feel pain. Any strikes had to be death blows. There was no slowing down.

So be it—Cullen gripped his sword tightly and lunged into the Red Templar before him.

Another Templar went to strike at him and Cullen struggled to throw the creature’s blow off. The strikes were coming faster now, and Cullen had to constantly readjust his shield to block. He counted five Red Templars surrounding him. Five creatures against his shield and sword. He was quickly becoming overwhelmed, but his back was to the frozen lake, and the only way forward was through the Templars.

Another blow came. It was fine. Another strike, this one from his side that he easily deflected with his sword. He could endure. Another shove. He _would_ endure it. Another hit, this time directed at his knees, making his legs buckle, causing him to almost lose his footing as another strike knocked against his armor hard, ratting him to his bones.

 _“Solas_! Put the ice behind Cullen!” He turned his head, and with a piercing feeling in his heart that hurt him more than any of the blows had, he saw Brynn race towards him. Solas was standing behind her, brow knitted in concentration, and then a wall of ice appeared behind Cullen, blocking off any other Templars. “ _Dorian_ , place your glyph down here!”

He watched as Brynn ran right into the middle of the Red Templars like some hasty, blasted fool. She ducked easily as one of the creatures swung at her. She reached behind her, into her quiver, and pulled out multiple arrows. She notched them in a messy pattern held against the string of her bow with steady hands, held the string taught, and then jumped. As she did, she let the arrows go, and they hit the Templars with a loud explosion. Cullen watched as she used the power of the shot to push herself back, back away from him and the group of Templars.

The Templars, each with an arrow pierced through them, turned their crimson eyes onto Brynn. “C’mere,” she mouthed, and Cullen cursed her cocky attitude. The Templars ran forward, away from Cullen, chasing her. Cullen growled in his throat and moved his footing, intent on following, intent on shielding the little archer—but just as he stepped forward there was a bright flash of light and heat from a burning fire that now engulfed the Red Templars.

 _The glyph_ , Cullen thought, watching a satisfied smirk cross Dorian’s face. Brynn had been bait for Dorian’s glyph.

“Now, Cassandra!” Cullen looked over as the Seeker raised her shield and came charging towards the Red Templars, knocking each one prone. Cullen lowered his own shield, gripped his sword in both hands, and finished off each Templar that Cassandra had knocked down with precise efficiency.

Cullen stared at Brynn now. She was perched on the wreckage of one of the trebuchets, arrow notched against her bow. She breathed in deeply, then let the arrow fly through the air, before reaching for another. Every time she hit her target—which seemed to be almost _every_ time she let an arrow fly—the left side of her mouth twitched in a poorly hidden grin.

Her curls had come loose from her braids. Her breath came fast, but it was controlled. Even. Tempered. Her face was set in grim determination, in concentration and focus he’d never seen from her before. There was blood and mud streaked on her face. She stood up straight, proud, and tall with long Marcher legs, muscled from riding horseback across half of Ferelden.

She had an archer’s stance. A _warrior’s_ stance. Yes, he saw it now. She was a warrior as much as he or Cassandra. He’d thought she was reckless—and maybe she still was. But she was also brave. Powerful. An equal on the battlefield. She didn’t need him to be her shield, didn’t need his protection.

She was their Herald.

“No applause, Commander?” Dorian asked him. He slapped him hard on the shoulder, and Cullen’s knees buckled. He must have taken that last hit harder than he thought. “I know, I know, you could have handled it all by yourself—”

“Herald, we don’t have much time,” Solas warned, nodding to the wall of ice he had erected. It was holding back another group of Red Templars.

“Are you all right?” Cassandra asked, looking at Cullen meaningfully. And why wouldn’t she? They were surrounded by Templars. Red coated his hands, and he couldn’t tell whether it was blood or that red stuff the Templars had ingested. Was this the other source Leliana spoke of? Whatever kind of lyrium this was, his body still craved it all the same. He could tell by the way he savored the smell of it every time he breathed, letting the sweetness fill his lungs.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Cullen muttered darkly. Now as not the time to have this conversation. “It’s _fine_ , I can endure.”

“Herald,” Solas repeated again. “The Red Templars are approaching, and there’s also a dragon to contend with.”

“Go to the gates—I’ll cover you and then circle back around,” she said, letting another arrow fly through the air.

“We’re not leaving you,” Cullen yelled up at her. They didn’t need cover. They needed to get back to the gates. He’d be damned if he came out here to save some apprentices only to leave behind their Herald.

“We’re not?” Dorian repeated. Cullen growled at him. “Right, remind me that the middle of a battlefield is not the appropriate place to argue with a perturbed ex-Templar.”

“Noted!” Brynn replied. She pulled one more arrow from her quiver. This one looked different—the tip wasn’t sharp but instead was covered with cloth. She swiveled her bow, aimed it just behind the ice barrier where a group of Red Templars were waiting, and let go. There was a small explosion, and Brynn hopped down from the ruined trebuchet soundlessly with sure footing.

“That should buy us a few minutes,” Brynn said. Cassandra nodded and raised her shield. She followed the two Mages towards the gates. Brynn lagged behind a few paces, so Cullen did as well.

“Are you all right?” Cullen asked her. He searched her face. The blood on there but it did not seem to be her own. Good.  
  
“Apart from the Archdemon?” She turned her eyes on him. Cullen noticed how they roamed his armor, his body, and finally his own face. “Are _you_?”

“We need to hurry,” he told her. It did not escape him that neither one had answered the other’s question.

“I know,” Brynn replied, slinging her bow across her back. “You sound like Solas.”

They hurried up the Chantry steps together. When they were on the other side of the gate, Cassandra helped him push the thick, wooden doors closed while Brynn tossed a lyrium potion to both Solas and Dorian. Cullen watched them drink the liquid.

The dragon screeched above. Cullen drew his attention away from the Mages, tried to concentrate on the battle dissolving in to panic around them. “We need everyone back at the Chantry,” he said. “It’s the only thing that might hold against the Beast.”

He watched as Brynn’s companions nodded in understanding. Brynn, however, was chewing her bottom lip. He didn’t like that look on her face. It was the same look she got before she made a decision. What was there to consider? The time for fighting was over. They needed to regroup in the Chantry. They needed time to reevaluate—time Cullen was certain they did not have.

“At this point,” he said, speaking louder as there was another crash nearby. Brynn’s eyes flickered towards his. There was resolve in them. “We’ll just make them work for it.”

Cullen turned, expecting Brynn to follow, but it was only later he realized she had taken her own path. She had stayed behind.

* * *

“We must evacuate to the Chantry,” Cassandra told her sternly. “You heard the Commander.”

“ _No_ ,” Brynn said through gritted teeth. She pulled her bow off of her shoulders. She shouldn’t’ve even bothered to put it away in the first place. “I’m not leaving any one behind.”

Brynn found Lysette first. There were Red Templars pouring over the wall, overwhelming the woman. She and her companions fell in to their familiar step—Solas cornered them and encased them in ice, Brynn dove in to the middle and served as bait, Dorian wore them down with his spells, and Cassandra protected them all with her unfaltering guard.

“Protect the Chantry,” Lysette told her, but Brynn didn’t listen. She was never any good at taking orders, anyway.

She rushed off to the next burning building, trying to pull out as many people as she could. Her hands stung and her lungs filled with smoke. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t leave any one out here to face the dragon or the Red Templars alone. Her companions kept on urging her to hurry, but she ignored their advice.

Finally, they fought their way to the Chantry doors. “ _Move_ , keep going, the Chantry is your shelter,” Chancellor Roderick told them, and Brynn had never been so grateful to hear that grumpy, stuck up voice before. It was fitting that they would make a stand here, at the place that had offered her solace so many times before.

“Herald,” she heard Cullen say, and Brynn turned around. He looked breathless and his brows were knitted together in concern. “I thought—you were—can’t you follow instructions for _once_?”

Her quip died on her lips. She reached out to him instinctively, too tired to fight the urge, but he stopped short of her touch. “Our position is not good,” he said. She heard weariness in his voice. “That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.”

“I’ve seen an Archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that,” Cole tried to explain. Brynn stared at the boy, but Cullen’s rough voice brought her back to attention.

“I don’t care what it looks like,” Cullen yelled. His fists were clenched at his side. “It’s cut a path for that army.” He turned to Brynn and told her, “They’ll kill everyone in Haven.”

“The Elder One doesn’t _care_ about the village,” Cole said, looking directly at Brynn. “He only wants the Herald.”

“We know he—” Cullen sighed. “Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed him was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.”

Her mind was spinning. Cullen was talking loudly, Cole was murmuring, Chancellor Roderick was moaning, there was crying, tension, _so much_ was happening at once. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to breathe.

“We’re overrun,” Brynn said, trying to work through the Commander’s words. She didn’t like where this line of thinking was going. She took a step away from Cullen. “To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven.”

He followed her. “We’re dying.” He was never one to mince words, to sugar coat the truth. Still, if he was bothered by the shock on her face, he didn’t show it. His own face was a mask of resolve and calm.

She knew that the situation was dire, but surely there could be a way out, right? There was _always_ a way. That’s how all the stories went. Besides, she couldn’t just _give up_. She hadn’t done that before, no matter how many times she’d wanted to. When she saw him surrounded by Red Templars, she hadn’t given up then. She hadn’t given up on any of the people in the burning buildings. She hadn’t given up in Redcliffe, in Val Royeaux, _void take it all_ , even after the Conclave exploded.

How could Cullen just…just _accept_ that it was over?

Brynn drew her eyes away from the Commander. She looked around the room at the families, the children Mages, the old and the injured. They looked back at her, scared but hopeful. _No_ , this wasn’t right. She couldn’t believe that this is where their grave would be. She couldn’t believe that all of these people were about to die. And she was supposed to just let it happen? She was supposed to be the fucking _Herald_ of flaming _Andraste_. How could they close the Breach just so that it would all come crashing down? This was _not_ okay, this could not Maker’s plan, it—

“I know,” Cullen said. She looked back at him, but his face wasn’t soft. It was hard, determined. “We can decide how to die.” Brynn started to shake her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her firmly, “Many don’t get that chance.”

There had to be a way. There had to be _something_. She drew her eyes from Cullen, from that stillness, from that _comfort_ that his resolve offered. There had to be something, something, something, _anything_.

“Chancellor Roderick can help!” Cole offered. “He wants to say it before he dies.”

The Chancellor explained the passage, and Brynn wanted to cry yes, yes, yes. It _was_ possible. They could make it out alive. “If this simple memory can save us,” he told her, “It could be more than mere accident. _You_ could be more.”

Alexis’s words echoed in Brynn’s mind. He had told her she was a mistake. Brynn thought of her parents, arguing over what to with her when she made a poor noblewoman. She thought of her brothers, all of them so sure of their place in life. She thought of the nights spent in the Chantry, asking the Maker if he had made a mistake in giving her form. She thought of all the people who died at the Conclave who deserved so much more to be alive than her. She thought of Redcliffe, and the vow she had made that the future she saw would _not_ come to pass.

Yes, the Chancellor was right. She could be more than just a mismatch of mistakes. She could be more than an unearned title like Herald. She could give every person in this room a chance to live. What had Leliana said after Brynn told her of the dark future? That she always enjoyed a good bargain? Her life for every person in this room seemed more than fair.

Perhaps this is what the Maker had intended for her all along.

Brynn squared her shoulders and said, “If that thing is here for me, I’ll make him fight for it.”

“And when the mountain falls?” Cullen asked. He grabbed her, and spun her around to face him. “What about you?”

Cullen. Her eyes softened. A million little memories that she hadn’t even realized she had kept the past month bubbled to the forefront of her mind. The sound of his rare, warm laughter that was hard-earned and never freely given. The mixture of armor oil and parchment that filled her lungs whenever he entered a room. The way he would mumble an apology to no one in particular whenever he bumped in to the war table. How the edges of his fingers and gloves were stained black from the charcoal he used to draw out battle plans and requisition orders. His hand flexing on the hilt of his sword before he made a suggestion. The feel of his hands resting on her shoulders now, the way they dug in to the leather of her armor, holding her, making her _still_.

Brynn reached up, and cupped his cheek in her hand. The stubble on his face scratched her palm. She’d always thought it was funny that he’d show up to breakfast clean shaven but that by time their morning war council meeting ended he’d be covered in stubble again. Her thumb reached out, and she ran it over the edge of his lips, and up, tracing his white scar with careful precision. She had always meant to ask him how he got it.

Now she would never get that chance. But…but she was _okay_ with that. This was her choice. Her burden. Her sacrifice.

He reached up and touched her hand, staring at her. “What—” he began to ask, but must have seen the hard look forming on her face, because he was shaking his head. She took a step back, and he reached out, trying to pull her back towards him. “ _No_ ,” he said. “Perhaps—perhaps you’ll surprise it. You’ll find a way.”

 _Perhaps you won’t die_.

She smiled at him sadly, and shook her head. Her burden. Her sacrifice. No one else’s. Brynn took a step back, away from his arms, away from the comfort and protection he provided, and towards her death. He nodded, turned his back to her, body tense, and began waiving his hands, issuing orders in a voice that betrayed no emotion.

Brynn grabbed some health poultices and shoved them in to her pockets. She accepted a handful of arrows and dumped them in to her quiver. Her hands were shaking, but it was okay. It was okay, it was okay, others were going to make it out. Just need to stay strong a little longer, Trevelyan.

“Take these forces with you; they’ll load the trebuchets.” Cullen had returned. She did not look at him. “Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line,” Cullen explained patiently. “If we are to have a chance—if _you_ are to have a chance, let that thing hear you.”

 _Let my blade pass through the flesh_ , Brynn thought as she walked out of the Chantry, _let my blood touch the ground. Let my cries touch their hearts, and be the_ last _sacrifice._

It had undoubtedly been the hardest battle of her life. Wave after wave of Red Templars came at them, but eventually the trebuchet was ready to fire. Brynn heard the dragon approaching, and turned to Cassandra, Solas, and Varric. They had been with her since the beginning. They did not need to stay to the end. “Move, now!”

She saw all three hesitate. “ _Now_!” She yelled at them, but still, they wavered. “Go,” she begged. The Inquisition needed them. They needed Casandra to lead. They needed Solas’s wisdom. They needed Varric to tell their story. But most of all, they were her friends, and Brynn needed them to live.

“Leave me!” Brynn reached forward and pushed Cassandra away. Varric grabbed Cassandra’s arm, trying to lead her away, but the Seeker wrenched her arm free. Then, shame on her face, she turned, and all three of them ran. They left her.

Good, Brynn thought, watching their retreating backs. Her burden, her sacrifice. The dragon’s fire exploded around her, and she was thrown prone. Her head hit the ground hard, but upon seeing a strange figure walk through the fire towards her, she stood up.

“Whatever you are, I’m not afraid,” she told the Elder One. This was it. She was going to die. But she wasn’t afraid.


	10. Chapter 10

Cullen had given the order to fire the signal; he hadn’t hesitated. He had watched the trebuchet’s rocks hit the mountainside and the avalanche bury the town of Haven; he had not looked away. And now he stood on the outskirts of the camp, watching and waiting.

“Have you seen anything new?” Dorian asked.

“My answer has not changed in the last five minutes,” Cullen ground out between gritted teeth.

If Dorian was offended by Cullen’s annoyed tone, he made no show of it. The Mage stood next to Cullen, arms wrapped tightly around his whole body, shivering. Cullen could practically hear the man’s teeth clatter even over the sound of wind and ice.

“Get some rest by the fire,” Cullen sighed. “There’s no need for you to watch with me.”

“Tempting as that sounds, I find myself unable to leave. I fear you’d turn in to some sort of human icicle while I’m away.” He shivered again as the wind picked snow around them. “Though I’m not sure how you stand this weather.”

 _Lack of lyrium_ , Cullen thought. But what he said was, “I’m Ferelden,” in a curt tone. He craned his neck, looking forward, and— _there_. Yes. It was not his imagination.

“Dorian.” His voice quivered, betraying the well of feelings blooming in his chest at seeing the Herald and her party return. “They’re here.”

He kept his eyes trained on the group and his feet planted steady in the snow, but his hands shook. Maybe it was from lyrium, maybe it was from relief, but it did not matter. They had returned from Haven.

Solas was the first to approach. One side of his mouth was swollen and there was dried blood on his chin. He had a limp and was leaning heavily on his staff, using it to help him push his feet through the thick snow.

Varric was not far behind. He didn’t look much better than the elf—Cullen could see a dark, blue bruise forming across his face. The dwarf cradled his crossbow in his hands and did not acknowledge Cullen’s or Dorian’s presence.

Cassandra was the next to crest the hill. Cullen walked towards her. She did not have the same injuries on her face, but out of all of them she looked the most weary, the most tired. Cullen craned his head around the woman, looking behind her expectantly.

His stomach sank further with every passing second. “The Herald?” he asked.

Cassandra shook her head.

“Where is the Herald?” Cullen asked her again. She looked away, readjusting the battered shield on her back.

“Where is she?” His hands shook harder. He tried to steady one on the hilt of his sword. The other made a fist at his side. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his throat felt constrained. “Tell me!” He barked.

“Shit, Curly,” Varric answered, voice cracking, “Don’t make me say it.”

“No,” Cullen snarled, turning on them. His face was red with anger and he narrowed his eyes at Cassandra. “You know what she’s like! What did she do? Insist on staying behind? Don’t tell me you _listened_ to her.”  
  
“Cullen, I—”

“ _No_ ,” he growled. How could she not be here? The other three had returned. She’d always come back before. She’d come back from Redcliffe, from Val Royeaux, for Maker’s sake, she’d come back from the _Fade_. How could an avalanche be what felled her?

He ran his hands over his face, trying to breathe, trying to steady himself. He couldn’t believe that she wasn’t here. His scrawny archer with strong arms and an easy laugh wasn’t here. They had left her to die.

No, he thought. _He_ had left her to die.

 _Give me a plan. Anything,_ she had yelled at him. She had said it with such conviction. She had believed that he could maneuver the Inquisition out of any dire situation. She had believed in him, and he had given her his best plan.

What did that even amount to? Nothing. What had his best been? Death. Cullen had given her nothing but her death.

He turned away from the others and caught sight of Leliana and Josephine. They stared at the group of three, eyes lingering where a fourth should have stood. They understood faster than he had. They understood that their Herald wasn’t returning. They understood that Brynn wasn’t coming back.

Cullen raised the hand that had turned in to a fist. The muscles were clenched tightly. He wanted to…he wanted to _do_ something. He wanted to hit something. To fight something. He wasn’t used to helpless rage coursing through his body; he hadn’t felt this way since his early days in Kirkwall, before they had increased his lyrium ration.

“We have to move camp,” Leliana said. “The Elder One is still out there.”

He forced the hand to unclench, tried to make his mind clear. Whatever he felt, it didn’t matter. Their Herald was cold and dead and gone forever. He looked through the trees, down to Haven. All that was left was a blanket of snow that curved and bumped where buildings had once stood.

“Cullen,” Leliana repeated. “The Inquisition needs its commander.”

He turned away from Haven—from Brynn’s grave—and began making preparations to move forward.

* * *

Andraste’s sacred ass, she was freezing.

Water dripped on Brynn’s face. It was ice cold. She looked up, but however she had come in to this cavern, she wasn’t leaving that way.

 _You will resist. You will always resist. It will matter not_.

Brynn’s head rested against the stone beneath her. It felt more comfortable than she would’ve expected. Maybe she wouldn’t resist this time. Yes, that didn’t sound like such a bad idea. She knew the people of Haven had made it out, her advisors had followed, and she’d sent away her companions.

There was no one left to fight for. Resting wouldn’t be so bad.

 _What you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens_. _You have spoilt it with your stumbling._

Brynn looked at her hand—not the one that she was proud of, with the callouses from years of archery practice. No, her other hand. The green light still admitted from it, but did the mark even matter anymore? The Elder One couldn’t remove it. He couldn’t take it from her. She’d somehow—whether through dumb luck or divine intervention—messed that up for him. It was out of his reach.

It was over.

She curled in to herself. She brought her knees up to her chin, savoring what little warmth her skin still provided. She tucked her arms tight against her chest and let her eyes close.

She could rest.

_So be it. I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation and god it requires._

Brynn bolted up right, though the pounding in her head and the way the world swayed made her think that the movement had been a little optimistic. _I will begin again_. That’s what the Elder One said. Despite the fog that surrounded her thoughts, she _remembered_ those words and the chill they had given her.

It meant he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t be satisfied with her death. He wouldn’t give up. And that meant her companions, Leliana, Josephine, Cullen, _the world —_ none of them were safe yet.

She scrambled to her feet and immediately tipped over. She landed on the ground hard, sharp rocks cutting through her leathers and in to her already bruised forearms. The world was hazy. She brought a hand to the back of her head and felt a knotted mess of blood. How bad were her injuries? How long had she been unconscious? How much time did she have left?  
  
She stood again, slower this time, forcing her body to be cautious despite the heavy beat of her heart. She could walk. At least she could walk. If the Elder One was going to begin again, she had to try to stop it. Maybe she couldn’t help much, she was sure that she’d be useless, but she had to at least warn the others.

She had to at least try. She couldn’t rest yet.

* * *

People, mostly Leliana’s scouts and a few of Cullen’s captains, had volunteered to search around the camp for Brynn. Cullen didn’t have it in him to say no. How could he deny their requests when he himself looked up every time a shadow crossed the snow?

It made no difference how many times Cullen told himself she was dead. His treacherous heart still lurched hopefully when one of the patrols returned, and his shoulders slumped further whenever he agreed to move their campsite forward.

“Any news?” Cullen asked eagerly. Dorian took a seat next to him in front of the campfire.

Dorian should have made some comment, should have snapped in annoyance and anger like Cullen had many times before, but he didn’t. “She’ll come back,” he insisted. Cullen didn’t know if the words were for the Mage’s benefit for his own. “I held her back in the dark future; she wanted to stay there and help. She will _want_ to come back to us.”

Of course she would have wanted to stay behind. She had been reckless and brave and compassionate to a fault—no, not to a fault. To Cullen’s admiration.

He wished then, the campfire burning hot against his face, that he’d said so to her earlier. He should have mentioned it in those days before she closed the Breach. He’d had enough time; he’d had plenty of chances. He should have said _something_ about how he’d been wrong about her.

Instead his parting words had been _perhaps you’ll find a way_ and _let that thing hear you_. He’d yelled empty hopes and useless orders instead of telling her something true, honest, and earnest like someone facing her death deserved.

Yet another shortcoming to add to his list of regrets about this day.

“Remember,” Varric said, looking up from the parchments he’d been scribbling furiously on, “Remember that time we were in the Hinterlands and she paid me two gold to lead Solas in front of that house? I’ll never forget the look on his face when she jumped out and scared him…that girl was damn lucky he didn’t freeze her to the ground.”

“She was,” agreed Solas. The elf had an almost feral smile on his face. “I have done worse to people for far less.” Solas seemed to consider for a moment before adding, “It has been many years since I met one such as her. She showed herself to be…a rare soul.”

“She and I—” Cassandra cleared her throat, her voice hoarse. She stared up at the sky and took in a breath. “I did not see myself becoming friends with someone I clapped in irons.”

“Really? It’s worked so well for you in the past, Seeker,” Varric murmured, but there was no malice in his voice. The two looked at one another before turning away.

“Struck down as a summer child, but she doesn’t miss the sun, doesn’t mind the cold. It’s a familiar kind of hurt,” Cole said. Suddenly, he laughed, and added, “She takes ten steps just to run a mile.”

“She once asked me to help her improve her archery techniques.” Leliana did not sit down by the fire. She folded her hands in front of her. “Which was silly, she was as talented at a bow as I am. But she insisted that I must have some—what did she call them? Ah, yes, sneaky Orlesian bard tricks.”

“Ugh, it’s a good thing you didn’t, innit? Sounded like a cat in heat when she sang, didn’t she? I used to chuck things at her until she’d shut it,” Sera said. “I kinda…whatever, no one gives a frig. I’m sick of all this stupid talk.”

“Didn’t she used to sing when it was her turn to cook?” Blackwall asked. “I used to help her skin her game for that awful stew she made. I was going to offer to take over cooking, next time…” He frowned deeply. “I was going to offer next time we traveled together.”

There was silence, and Cullen cleared his throat. Her companions stared at him. They had been her comrades in arms, and he only an adviser. They had traveled extensively with her, and by comparison Cullen’s memories of their Herald amounted to nothing more than a handful of moments.

How could he tell them that he’d studied the way she’d chewed her chapped lips, how his eyes had lingered on her wrinkled nose whenever they had disagreed, and how his ears strained to hear her laugh above the sound of recruits training? They were moments that he realized he treasured now that they would never happen again.

How could he explain that he’d miss something as simple as a smile?

“I, uh,” he rubbed the back of neck. “I need to check on the patrols,” he finished, retreating from the warmth of the fire.

* * *

Brynn pulled her arms closer around her, but it was more out of habit than anything else. She’d long since lost feeling in her body.

Every step she took forward, she stumbled. She fell. She was climbing up hill now. The snow was as deep as her knees.

“Embers?” She reached forward towards the fire. The warmth of it hurt her face. She was so used to numbness. Anything else made her body protest loudly in pain. Still, it would feel nice to lay down for a bit. If there had been a fire here, it was a good of a place as any to rest. It couldn’t hurt. She just needed a moment to regain some strength. It would be fine, right?

 _Another way to give this world the nation and god it requires_.

She remembered the piercing sound of the dragon’s scream. She could almost feel the Elder One’s deep voice reverberate through her body. Brynn shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

It hurt, but she lifted her legs, pulling herself through the snow. She had to keep going. One more step. It was easier if she just concentrated on the movement, the next moment, the next breath.

Brynn collapsed on her knees as she reached the crest of the mountain. She tried to move her legs but they wouldn’t _work_. She reached forward with her hands, trying to grapple for something to help her up, but she couldn’t move her fingers.

She couldn’t take another step. It was over. Her best had not been good enough.

* * *

 Cullen thought that his eyes were fooling him at first. He was tired. He had made sure that they had kept up an unforgiving pace, moving away from the ruins of Haven. Surely the shadow he saw was just another flicker of firelight against the snow. Surely it was only a cruel tick of his mind.

But then the shadow collapsed towards the ground, and he saw a familiar mess of blond hair reflect light, and he knew. Cullen _knew_.

“There! It’s her!” He yelled. He ran towards her as fast as he could. He tripped and stumbled in the knee deep snow but he didn’t let it stop him. “Herald!” he yelled, her title tearing from his throat.

“ _Brynn_ ,” he breathed, quiet like a prayer this time. Was she alive? The Maker wouldn’t lead her all this way just to have her die in front of their camp. He fell to his knees next to her and reached for her body. He saw her open one of her eyes listlessly. She was as pale as the snow that surrounded her.

“Brynn,” he whispered desperately as her eyes closed. He pulled her out of the snow, towards him, and gathered her in his arms. He enveloped her, held her as close as he could to his body, trying to share any warmth he possessed. She was alive. She was alive. “Brynn, you’re alive.”  
  
“Oh,” he heard her whisper, “That’s good.”

He laughed at her. He leaned down and she nestled closer to him. He planted a single kiss on her ice cold forehead. “You’re going to be okay. We’ve got you. _I’ve_ got you.”

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra hurried over to them as Cullen carried the small bundle of a woman back to the camp. “Quick—we need Healers, blankets,” she rushed off to get them. “Leliana! Josephine! She’s _alive_!”

“You found her,” Dorian said, gazing at Cullen carrying Brynn. “You southerners are damned stubborn,” he told her, and reached out to touch her frozen hair.

“Dorian,” she said, weak voice soft and relieved. Cullen watched Brynn try to open her eyes. She didn’t look for the Mage though. Her gaze locked on to Cullen and she asked, “The others—are they—did they?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he answered, immediately understanding her words. She was worried about her companions. It was what he would have asked in her position. The knowledge that even now, half-frozen, she still cared for others made Cullen cradle her tighter in his arms. “Yes, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric are fine.”

Cullen laid her down on a cot that Cassandra had moved close to the fire. There were warmed blankets piled on it. He was surprised to find that Brynn’s tiny, frozen hands were clinging to him. “No,” she whimpered.

“It’ll be okay.” He brushed back some of her hair, just as he had done in her cabin so many nights ago, back when she was nothing more than a prisoner. “The Healers must assess your injuries.”

She didn’t let go. “Corypheus,” she started, turning her head. He felt pained when he saw how even that small movement hurt and exhausted her. “He said—he wants—we need to move away quickly—”

“There have been no signs that his forces have followed us,” Cullen said. “I’ve set up patrols.”

She nodded, eyes closing, and her grip finally loosened from the fur of his cloak. “You think of _everything_ ,” she murmured. Even on blue lips, her small smile seemed warm. Before Cullen could respond, before he could pull the blanket over her body, he was pushed out of the way by the Healers they had taken from Redcliffe.

“She’s freezing,” he overhead one of them say. He took a step back and felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Dorian. Cassandra was on the other side of him, her arms crossed, surveying the scene with narrowed, red-rimmed eyes.

No one—not even the Herald of Andraste—would have been able to make it through a blizzard unscathed. The Healers worked carefully peeling Brynn’s frozen armor from her body. Every piece of metal and leather removed revealed a new injury. Her pale skin was littered with bruises, deep cuts, and areas blackened with frostbite.

There was a small gasp next to him. Josephine had covered her mouth and looked away. Leliana turned her back to their Herald and said, “We must plan what’s next.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for your patience with getting this chapter out! Real life happened and I wasn't in a good headspace to write this. Again, thanks for all the comments, kudos, ect. They are so so appreciated.

Solas had told her to scout to the north, so Brynn had. Be there guide, he said, so she had tried.

The healers in the camp protested, so scouting did involve a certain degree of sneakiness. But she was a rogue, right? And rogues were supposed to be sneaky. So instead of taking a few days to recover her strength, Brynn woke up at a dreadfully early hour and forced herself out of bed every morning. She snaked around the sleeping camp and scouted out a path through the Frostbacks.

There was no time to rest, anyway. How long would everyone be able to trek through the snow? Not to mention, they didn’t stand a chance if their camp was ambushed. It was a real possibility—they had no idea where Corypheus and the Red Templars were. Cullen’s patrols would only give them so much warning before another attack. They needed to get to this _place_ that Solas promised would be safe.

Brynn acted as though she had no doubts. She strolled into camp every evening with her head held high, hiding the way her muscles quivered and her breath came short. People were looking at her. Watching her. Looking _up_ to her. She would not be the reason anyone doubted the Inquisition. She wouldn’t be the reason that anyone lost faith.

She acted like she knew what she was doing. Sometimes, she even felt it.

Brynn was surprised that there weren’t more people who saw through her facade. Cassandra, of course, had cornered her one morning and berated her for pushing herself too hard. Vivienne had lectured her on keeping up appearances as she helped her change her bloodied bandages. Cole murmured half-formed thoughts about doubt, being scared, and just wanting to feel warm again.

Cullen was strangely silent on the matter of her scouting. Brynn had thought for sure that he’d lecture her, but he hadn’t. She’d barely spoken to him since he dragged her body out of the snow.

But there were small things he did that made her think that he _approved_ of her now. He would give up his seat next to Dorian no matter what they had been talking about when she approached. Was it because he knew she hated the cold and Dorian _always_ took the seat closest to the fire? When she stood talking to someone, wind cutting through her thin gear, a blanket would be placed around her shoulders. She’d feel gloved fingers curl into her for a second longer than necessary, but when she’d turn around, Cullen would already be walking away.

In the morning, she’d find that her quiver outside of her tent was filled with arrows even though she was positive it had been empty the night before. There would even be the small pile of health poultices, the ones her healers insisted she drink, nestled next to her quiver.

But there were more important things to consider than the way she all thumbs around Cullen.

She just didn’t have _time_ to try to figure it out. She didn’t have time to give a name to the way her heart beat faster when she caught him looking at her. Her dreams were filled with the scent of armor oil and parchments. Her cheeks hurt from smiling when she remembered how her hand itched when her palm touched the stubble on his face. Surely that whole battle at Haven had been the worst thing to ever happen to her—how could she smile about _anything_ that had happened that day?

All she had time for was finding the fortress. Solas said it was a place where the Inquisition could grow. So she pushed ahead, kept moving forward, and on Brynn’s last day of scouting, when the Inquisition had finally climbed the last rock, Solas had spoken the words, “Skyhold,” and she beheld the most magnificent fortress she’d ever laid eyes on.

It was _beautiful_.

Crumbling, decrepit, stale and moldy, but _beautiful_.

There had been a lot of work to do, and that was before Brynn had become the Inquisition’s…leader? The words still sounded strange to her. Inquisitor. Another title to hang heavy around her neck. But this one felt better than Herald, if only because Cassandra had said that she was the Elder One’s rival, not because of the mark on her hand, but because of her actions.

With her bandaged hands, she wasn’t much help in the effort to clean up Skyhold. Leliana refused to let her scout the area surrounding the fortress. She couldn’t hold a quill properly, so Josephine had banished her from any diplomatic correspondence.

The only person that Brynn hadn’t approached to ask how she could help was Cullen.

Brynn found the Commander in the courtyard. Well, she thought it was the courtyard, anyway. It was hard to tell with how much disrepair Skyhold was in. The Inquisition’s soldiers milled about him, and he was talking quietly with Dorian.

He was busy. She would…she would just come back later. When there were less people about. Yes. That sounded like a good idea—

“Inquisitor!” Dorian yelled at her just as she meant to turn around. Her shoulders stiffened. She glanced at Cullen; he was pointedly looking at the reports in his hands. “To what do we owe this fine pleasure?”

“It’s nothing,” she said hastily. Too hastily. Dorian grinned at her.

“There must be _something_ ,” Dorian drawled. “Surely you didn’t come here just to moon after strapping young Templars.”

Cullen made a choking noise.

“Ex-Templars, my friend, my apologies,” Dorian added quickly.

“No,” Brynn said through gritted teeth. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. She really, really hoped her face wasn’t turning an embarrassing shade of pink. “I don’t _moon_. After _anyone_.”

“Disappointing.” Dorian sighed loudly, walking away. “I’ll meet you later for our chess match, Commander? I expect a full report.”

Cullen grunted in reply. He looked at the papers on his desk. Brynn picked at the bandages on her hands. She looked up tentatively just in time to see Cullen make the same movement.

“Did you—”

“How can I—”

They both let out a small laugh. Brynn grinned. She’d missed his laugh this past week. She’d missed his company—their quiet walks around the lake in Haven, their war council meetings, eating breakfast with him in a tavern that was now buried under twenty feet of snow. She’d missed it all, especially because she had been so close to losing it forever.

“Ladies first,” he offered, nodding his head.

“Age before wisdom?” She responded.

“I think,” he replied, and she felt his eyes studying her face, “The phrase is wisdom before beauty.”

“Oh.” She was mixing up her words like she did whenever she was nervous. Andraste’s ass, this was dumb. There was no reason to be nervous. This was _Cullen_. “Then you should definitely go second.”

He frowned at her. “But I’m older than you?”  
  
“Maker’s balls, _no_ , that’s not what I meant,” Brynn said, holding up her hands. She saw him look at the bandages that still covered them. His face turned dark, and any semblance of his smile disappeared only to be replaced by a scowl. “What? Oh, this? I’m actually following the Healer’s instructions, _thanks_.”

“Hm,” he grumbled skeptically, and turned back to his work.

Brynn stepped around his makeshift desk, positioning herself in front of him. It was as though once he saw her hurt hands, he had shut down, and had stopped the banter she had become familiar with. It was strange. Even before, when she was sure that he disliked her and her decisions, he would at least talk to her.

When he made no move, she put her hands on the wood, and ducked her had just below his report so that she stared right in to the warm, brown eyes that she had memorized the color of. “I came here to ask you something, you know.”

Still, he refused to look at her. She bit her lip in frustration. Cullen’s eyes flickered away from his report and to her face. There was something in his eyes that made her quiver, a darkness, but not the same anger he had seen before. But then he looked away and said, “If it involves bees again, the answer is no.”

“No bees, I promise,” she said. “I’m just looking for work.”

“For work?” He asked. “What do you mean?” When she held up her bandaged hands in front of his face, he simply said, “Oh.”

“Please?” She asked. Ugh, her voice sounded desperate. It was probably very unbecoming of an Inquisitor. She cleared her throat again. “I’ll polish armor, I’ll run reports, I’ll brush horses, _anything_.”

“No,” he replied sternly.

“No? That’s it? No explanation? I mean, I know I’m useless at a lot of sword-fighting-Commander-type things,” she was trying so very hard to make him laugh but he only kept on staring at his report. Andraste’s ass, this was a disaster. “But I’m sure I can be some help to you—to the Inquisition.”

“No,” he repeated again, barely sparing her a glance.

Brynn crossed her arms over her chest. It made her still frost-bitten fingers throb painfully. She wasn’t going to scurry and hide in a corner like one of his recruits. She was the Inquisitor now, right? Surely that must come with some perks. She growled low in her throat in way that she’d heard Cullen do a million times before. “I believe I deserve a better answer than no.”

He finally looked up at her. His face was tinged gray, and he was gripping a report so tightly in his hands that the pages had crinkled. She peered at the papers. There were names listed.

Names of those they’d lost at Haven.

“Cullen,” she exhaled softly, her anger fading away immediately. “How many did we lose?”

“Too many,” he said swiftly, and it was the truth.

Brynn remembered how this man before her had stayed behind on the battlefield to carry back a wounded soldier. She remembered seeing him cornered by Red Templars after he’d rushed out to save a group of Mages. She knew that he, probably better than anyone, understood what this loss meant.

“Our escape from Haven,” Brynn gulped, “It was close.”

Close was an understatement, but he nodded.

“I’m relieved that you—that so many people made it out,” she corrected herself. She had been trying to not make this conversation about the foolish rush of feelings she felt around him.

Cullen stood there silently for a moment, and Brynn thought that was her answer there. He was the Commander, and she was the Inquisitor. The time for sharing jokes and quiet conversations was over. There was too much at stake.

It felt like she was losing a friend, but more. It felt sharper. Deeper. It _hurt_.

She turned, but a familiar hand encircled her waist, pulling her back. “You stayed behind,” he said. Cullen didn’t move his hand, just as he hadn’t moved it when he grabbed her in the Chantry. “You would have—”

His voice broke, and Brynn knew in that moment that he had actually thought she was dead. When Mother Giselle had said that her return was miraculous, she hadn’t realized just how far gone everyone truly believed she was.

She watched his eyes narrow, his face harden. It wasn’t the same hardness that had been there before. He didn’t look angry or annoyed. He looked determined, a familiar fire in his brown eyes. “I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. _You have my word_ ,” he vowed.

Although his hand had dropped from her waist, although he had turned back to his work, Brynn was rooted on the spot. It was another moment before she remembered that she was standing in the middle of the courtyard, staring after her Commander, and she forced her feet to move.

What he said…it had sounded like a confession. She smiled, despite herself. It seemed wrong, to be happy when so many had died, but maybe…maybe she _was_ mooning after someone. Was that even okay? She wasn’t sure, but she liked the warm, light feeling filing her chest when she thought of Cullen.

 

* * *

 

When Cullen was unsure of something, he made lists.

His neatly organized desk had lists of patrols, repairs he thought Skyhold needed, new training schedules, books he had requested, requisitions, and _many_ more lists. They were all written in his boxy, neat handwriting, held down by stones to keep the wind from whisking them away.

But the most important list—the one that had consumed his thoughts—hadn’t been written down. It was a tally that he kept daily. He had named it ‘Why You Shouldn’t Think of Brynn Trevelyan like _That_ ’.

In his head, he’d underlined the word ‘that’ half a dozen times. Underlining was easier than giving _it_ a name.

He’d been thinking about it for the past couple of weeks. Perhaps he had been thinking about _it_ for far longer than he even realized, but the list had only become formalized since she had found Skyhold for the Inquisition. Since she’d cornered him in the courtyard and said she was _glad_ he’d made it out of Haven.

Cullen couldn’t deny any longer that he noticed how Brynn stared at him across the War Table, campfire, training yard, _wherever_ they were together. He couldn’t deny how her eyes lingered on him. He couldn’t ignore how his eyes always found hers and did the same.

Had the two of them always been like this? Was he as oblivious as Dorian kept on telling him he was?

The door of the War Room banged open on its hinges. Cullen winced at the noise. It was late morning, and usually by now his headache would have subsided. He hoped this wasn’t a sign that the withdrawal symptoms were getting worse. Lately, it seemed like he went to bed with a headache and woke up with the same, constant pounding.

_You’re an early riser,_ he added mentally to his list. _She’s late to meetings and wakes up at the last possible second and Maker she stomps around_ so loudly _in the mornings._

Cullen’s eyes flickered above his report, and he watched as Brynn walked in to the room. In Haven, Brynn would follow Cassandra like a second shadow. Her shoulders would be hunched over, and she always looked uncomfortable.

Now, Brynn strode in confidently. She marched up to the war table and leaned over. Her elbows settled on the table as she surveyed the figurines on the map that represented the Inquisition’s holdings and operations. _Her_ forces, Cullen corrected himself, now that she was Inquisitor.

Maker preserve him, he was trying desperately hard not to follow the lean lines of her body. He was trying to not stare at her in any way, shape, or form. In the fabric that she wore under her armor, the fabric that she was wearing right now, he could see every curve she possessed.

If he watched her for long enough, he could see the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

Cullen gripped his report tighter.

_She’s the Inquisitor; the Herald of Andraste. You’re the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces_ , he lectured himself sternly. _It would be unprofessional and inappropriate._

But at this point, hadn’t most of his thoughts about her this morning been inappropriate? He felt like she’d been on his mind since he awoke.

“Our soldiers and scouts were attacked by a group of rebel Mages outside of Skyhold,” Leliana said, passing the report to Brynn. Brynn took it clumsily with her bandaged fingers, almost dropping it as she struggled to grip the parchments, and read over it.

“Did you know any of these soldiers or Mages?” Brynn asked. Cullen was suddenly aware that everyone was staring at him. Worse, he had been caught looking at Brynn slack-jawed and not paying attention to a word she had been saying.

He cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I didn’t. Why?”

“Grand Problem Maker—” Josephine cleared her throat pointedly, and Brynn rolled her eyes. She had a total lack of respect for other’s positions. Surely that was a good reason why whatever he was feeling was a bad idea.

A smile tugged at Cullen’s lips. But, Maker, did he find it endearing how she ignored titles like they were nothing but hollow words.

“Grand _Enchanter_ Fiona,” Brynn corrected herself, “Addressed this specifically to you, Commander.”

His stomach sank, and he read the report that Brynn offered him. Fiona was asking him to remember how youth often made poor decisions, and to let these Mages off easily. Did he ever know about poor decisions made in youth. He had a _list_ of _those_ sorts of decisions a mile long.

“What she suggests is too light of a sentence,” Leliana interjected.

“Surely some of our Templar allies would object? These Mages did attack first, after all,” Josephine agreed.

“Cullen?” Brynn asked softly.

He looked up at her, into her eyes. If Brynn knew what he did in Ferelden’s Circle, there wasn’t any possible way she’d look at him as softly. She was too kind-hearted, she cared about people too deeply, to not be angry. If she knew how he had stubbornly ignored the pain that the Mages in Kirkwall endured, she surely would despise him.

Cullen cleared his throat again, and tried to use his Commander voice—the voice that he had perfected as Knight-Captain in Kirkwall. “Put them in the stocks for a couple of days. It was—they were frightened and panicked.”

Leliana and Josephine looked at him in shock. Brynn, though, was smiling at him. “I agree.”

After Leliana, Josephine, Brynn, and he discussed a few other matters, they began to wind down and gather up reports. It was likely that they would meet again later that day, but for now their work was done in the War Room. Cullen peered at the map of Ferelden spread out in front of them, waiting for everyone to leave. He felt shaky on his feet from the lyrium withdrawals, and needed a moment to steady himself.

“What is it, Commander?” Josephine asked him seriously. Cullen saw Brynn lower the report that was in her still-bandaged hands and peer at him, concerned.

“Lake Calenhad looks like a bunny if you squint.”

Brynn burst out laughing so hard that she had to lean against the war table for support. Cullen smiled at her widely, while Josephine tutted dismissively and walked away. Leliana gave him a knowing look, but said nothing.

To him, Brynn’s laughter was prettier than any of the music he heard in the Chantry. It made him feel…stronger inside. It made his hands shake less. It made the nightmares ebb away faster when he woke in the middle of the night.

But they were at war. He shouldn’t be laughing this much. He should be spending his days trying to save lives, not trying to make a young woman smile.

At dinner that night, Cullen watched her struggle with her silverware. In Haven, when she ate, he had noticed that she’d always use the correct fork and folded her napkin neatly on her lap. He’d found it amusing that a woman who could have been decimating demons half an hour ago would have table manners.

Now, though, with her clumsy, bandaged hands, she struggled to hold even a spoon properly. Not spilling the contents of said spoon everywhere was even more difficult. Dorian kept teasing her, asking her if she needed her meat cut up, and she glowered at him. Dinner took her over an hour, and for all of her effort she only managed to shovel a few spoonfuls of potatoes in to her mouth.

She was so stubborn. She’d rather starve than ask for help. Cullen knew he was stubborn too. Surely if he acted on _whatever_ feeling this was in the pit of his stomach, it would end badly. Both of them together couldn’t be a good combination.

He watched as her companions gathered around her at dinner. Cassandra and Varric actually sat across from each other. Varric was telling one of his famous stories, and Cullen could hear Brynn arguing with him about something he said regarding Prince Sebastian and a hail of arrows. It was good natured, though. Her companions smiling, laughing, and enjoying one another’s company despite their differences.

She inspired so many people to do better. She inspired _him_ to do better. Wasn’t that enough of a reason to talk to her about his feelings? She would listen. She always listened to him—well, literally listened, at any rate. Actually following his advice was another matter entirely.

_“_ Shhh, no, Varric!” Brynn shrieked, covering her ears with her bandaged hands. “I do not need to hear what the Champion of Kirkwall said about Prince Sebastian! Do you realize that Starkhaven isn’t that far from Ostwick? His brothers played with mine. I would never be able to face him or any members of his family,” she groaned loudly.

“Do his brothers,” Cassandra cleared her throat and tried to say subtly, “Look…similar to him?”  
  
“We are not having this conversation.” Brynn’s head fell to the table with a thump. “We are not going to talk about one of my distant relative’s _assets_.”

_Arls, Banns, Princes, those were her friends. She’s noble born_ , Cullen thought. _Shepherds, milkmaids, and guardsmen were yours. You have no title outside of the Inquisition._

Yet another, darker thought took hold of Cullen. He felt ashamed that it even crossed his mind, but as he watched Blackwall pour Brynn another drink, and saw Iron Bull reach across the table and thump her softly on the shoulder, Cullen added another item to his list.

He was sure she could have her pick of men within and outside Skyhold. Why would she possibly want to waste any of her time with a half-broken, empty ex-Templar?

“Her recovery is going slowly,” Leliana said quietly next to him. “The Healers say that she will need to wear the bandages for at least a few more days. After that, whether she gains full use of her fingers again…” Leliana trailed off.

Cullen knew what it was like to study and master something your whole life, only to find in a moment that you couldn’t use those skills any more. At least he had decided to give up lyrium. It had been his choice, and he didn’t need lyrium to use his sword and shield. Brynn had her talent with a bow stripped away from her, and now it was just a waiting game to see if she would gain it back.

The thought of Brynn not being able to do something she loved so much…it filled him with a sadness so strong that it surprised him. Frightened him, even. He hadn’t let himself feel so strongly about _anything_ but the Order in a very long, long time.

The next day, Cullen was in the courtyard of Skyhold. He had just finished taking some of their soldiers on their morning run around the castle. It was important for them to stay in shape, and Cullen had always enjoyed running at first daylight. It helped clear his mind of the nightmares he invariably had during the evening hours.

He saw Brynn approach him out of the corner of his eyes just as he finished strapping the last of his armor back in to place.

“I have a question for you,” she announced to him. He saw that her hands were balled up in little fists at her side.

“Erm.” It wasn’t unusual for her to ask him questions—Maker knew she’d ask him many before. But she tended to come right out and say whatever was on her mind. Cullen frowned deeply “All right,” he said suspiciously, slowly.

“All right,” she echoed. He saw her square her shoulders, like she did before making a decision. What was this about?

They stood silent for a moment. Cullen cleared his throat.

“Oh, right!” She shook her head. Some of her hair fell out of the messy bundle of braids. With her hands injured, the braids weren’t as tight as they usually were, and he could already see more pieces of her hair coming loose. Cullen wanted to reach out and tuck the hair behind her ears. He didn’t. “Okay! So…right. A question for you.”

“I can come back later, if now is a bad time?” Cullen suggested. It occurred to him that she had approached him, so really she should be the one to leave.

“No.” Brynn closed her eyes, took a breath, and opened them, “Did you…leave any one behind in Kirkwall?” She asked, peering closely at him.

Cullen frowned at her. “No, I fear I made few friends there, and my family is in Ferelden.”

“No one special caught your interest?”  
  
Cullen was painfully aware of her proximity now, if he hadn’t been before. He flexed his hand on the hilt of his sword. How could anyone have caught his interest in that damned place? How could anyone compare to the woman standing in front of him now, even if they had?

You could lose her friendship, he told himself.

There was no way she was asking what he thought she was asking.

Even if she was, it would be an awful, terrible, bad idea.

It would end poorly just like everything else in his life.

“No.” Cullen pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrated on the woman standing in front of him. “No, not in Kirkwall.”

The smile, the look of relief, that broke out on her face was unmistakable. Even he couldn’t deny it.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra said, storming up behind Brynn. The younger woman looked at Cullen, guilt on her face. “You were supposed to meet with your new trainers half an hour ago, not—” Cassandra stopped short when she saw that Cullen was standing with Brynn. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, as though he was solely to blame for their Inquisitor’s lateness. “I didn’t realize you had more pressing matters, Inquisitor.”

“I just needed a quick word,” Brynn said hastily, although Cullen caught how her voice hitched a little when she said the word needed. Had she been thinking about him as much as he her? “I’ll see you later, Commander?” She offered.

He nodded.

Upon seeing his agreement, Brynn broke out in a run towards the courtyard where her trainers were waiting, a bounce in her step that he had not seen since before Haven fell. He watched her until Cassandra cleared her throat. He brushed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the small smile that had appeared.

Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest, and shook her head at him.

“What?” Cullen asked.

“I can’t believe Dorian was right,” Cassandra said, barely keeping the disgust out of her voice. “You two are…you…You are _making eyes_ ,” she accused.

When Cullen didn’t respond, Cassandra stood in front of him, reached out, and grabbed his arm roughly. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“Not really,” he said honestly.

“Do you know how poor of an idea this is?”

“I know,” Cullen murmured. Every day, the cons on the list were longer than the pros, but he couldn’t stop feeling warm whenever she was near. “Maker’s breath, I _know._ ”

“She’s the Inquisitor and you’re the Commander of our forces—”  
  
“I know _—”_

“It would be highly inappropriate—”

“I _know_ —”

“Not to mention, you should know better—”

“Cassandra, I _know_ —”

“I don’t want to see her hurt,” Cassandra continued, not listening to Cullen. “I don’t think—I don’t want to see either of you hurt. Especially with what you’re experiencing.”

Cullen paused, and scratched the back of his neck. “What do you mean?”

“Cullen,” Cassandra said softly. The hand she had been using to hold his forearm relaxed. It became gentle. It was the gesture of a concerned friend. “Does she even know about the lyrium?”

“No,” Cullen replied.

Cassandra was right. What Brynn knew of him…it was just the image of the put-together Commander, always under control. She knew he had trouble sleeping, but she didn’t know it was because his dreams were full of dead Mages and desire demons. She didn’t know what cowardly things he had done in his past.

She didn’t even know that he wasn’t taking lyrium anymore.

“I won’t tell you what to do,” Cassandra said quietly. “And even if I wanted to tell the Inquisitor what to do, Maker knows she wouldn’t listen to me. But I think before you continue…whatever game you two are playing, you should tell her about the lyrium.”

Cullen knew Cassandra was right. He probably should have told Brynn right after she accepted the role on Inquisitor. Some stupid, stupid part of him had wanted to avoid it. Hide it from her, even. “I will,” he said quietly.

_She doesn’t know everything about you._

If that wasn’t a good enough reason to stop this nonsense, Cullen didn’t know what was.

“I will tell her,” he repeated, more firm this time.


	12. Chapter 12

“What did you two discuss?” Dorian asked Brynn, shoving a cup of tea into her hands. “You Southerners—this is my only form of entertainment.”

“What?” Brynn asked, mouth agape. She held the cup in her hands, feeling the warmth through the bandages on her fingers. That had to be a good sign at least, right? That she could feel warmth in her deadened fingers? “What are you talking about?”

Dorian laughed at her. “I spied you talking to the Commander today. You were _wringing_ your hands. It was endearing.”

“I—we—he—we—”

“Ah, I see you’ve mastered the use of pronouns,” Dorian said. “Very good.”

“We were _just talking_ ,” Brynn finished in a huff, trying to cover her embarrassment by taking a sip of her tea.

 _Not in Kirkwall, not in Kirkwall, not in Kirkwall_. She had replayed Cullen’s words over and over in her head during her training that day, memorized how his deep voice had reverberated through her whole body, and couldn’t stop herself from savoring the warmth his simple sentence gave her even now.

Was it possible that he was thinking about her as often as she was thinking about him? She had never pictured herself acting on…well, _whatever_ this bundle of feelings was. Perhaps it was too soon to give what she felt a name, but Brynn didknow that she ached to hear her Commander’s laugh. Perhaps she had ached for it even before she had buried Haven under a mountain of snow.

“You’re doing it again.” Dorian clicked his tongue. “You’re making that face.” Brynn wrinkled her nose at him, and he laughed. “ _No_ , not that face, you uncivilized Free Marcher. The other one. The one you reserve for a certain Templar.”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Dorian,” Brynn murmured. Her face felt hot. Burning. It was probably some ugly shade of red by now. Good thing that Dorian was the only other soul in the library this late at night.

Dorian and Cullen were close—or at least Brynn suspected as much. She often saw them talking, sharing books, and sometimes Cullen would even _laugh_ with Dorian. The last thing she wanted was for Dorian to report back to Cullen about her silly…crush? Is that what this was? A crush? Either way, she did not need anyone else to know about it.

Besides, crushes sounded like they were very un-becoming of an Inquisitor.

“Why don’t you want to talk?” Dorian prodded. “Cullen certainly talks about you.”

Brynn’s teacup slipped. The liquid spilled over the edges, scalding her sensitive hands, and she cursed under her breath. But the smug, all-knowing look that graced Dorian’s face was far more annoying than the pain her clumsiness had caused her.

“What—” she cleared her throat, trying to make her voice sound even. Professional. Uninterested even.

She wasn’t very good at it.

“What does he say about me?” she croaked.

“Oh, nothing much,” Dorian replied.

Brynn flicked her fingers against Dorian’s arm like she would have with one of her brothers, muttering, “Andraste’s ass, you can be annoying.”

They both sipped their tea. Dorian flipped through a few pages of the book open on his lap, and Brynn tried to concentrate on one of the many reports she probably should have been reading weeks earlier. Orlais, Ferelden, Nevarra, Starkhaven…she thumbed through the pages, trying to concentrate, but unable to.

_Not in Kirkwall, not in Kirkwall, not in Kirkwall._

Brynn huffed. She had work to do. She did not need to be consumed by this…by this…by this _hope_ that Cullen thought of her. She wasn’t some little noble girl running around with skinned knees. She was the Inquisitor.

“You should say something,” Dorian murmured in a sing-song voice.

Brynn’s first instinct was to make yet another face at the Mage, but…but maybe she _should_ say something to Cullen? She _wasn’t_ a little girl with skinned knees. She was an adult. A leader. She needed to learn to face her fears head on, and, well, this was a fear, wasn’t it? If she said something to Cullen, at least she would _know_ whether or not he felt the same.

Wasn’t not knowing worse?

Apparently not. Over the next few days, Brynn did an admittedly fantastic job of avoiding Cullen and any conversations with him in general.

Instead of taking breakfast in the Great Hall, nestled between Cassandra and Cullen as she used to in Haven, she shared an apple with Cole. They let their legs dangle over the ramparts, and she tried not to listen with interest as Cole dipped into the thoughts of the people walking below them. “Torn apart, ends come before starts,” Cole muttered. “What am I to do with a love that won’t sit still?”

Brynn handed Cole another slice of apple, smiling at the younger boy.

Instead of lingering after their council meetings, Brynn would gather her mismatched reports as soon as Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen finished talking and would try to make her way towards the exit.

One morning, Cullen stopped her. His fingers brushed against her arm, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe and her tongue felt swollen and Andraste’s ass had it _always_ been so hot in the war room?

“Inquisitor,” Cullen murmured, “If you have a moment—”

She bounced away from him. “Can’t, Commander!” She croaked, practically bounding towards the door. “Training to do! Inquisitorial stuff! You know how it goes!”

Instead of bugging Cullen for his opinion on one of the reports she was writing, she quietly asked Iron Bull to look over her messy scrawl that detailed one of their forays into the Hinterlands before Haven fell. Cullen had pestered her before Haven to finish the report, and although the importance of it probably didn’t matter anymore, she still didn’t want to keep him waiting too long.

Instead of showing off to Cullen the latest herbs, pelts, or bow schematics she had picked up, Brynn sat on the floor of Blackwall’s barn and watched his hands carve wooden figurines. It was nice. Blackwall didn’t talk, and Brynn could babble endlessly about nonsense and he didn’t mind, only making the occasional grunt to acknowledge that he was still breathing.

But that ended when one afternoon, she heard Cullen clear his throat behind her while she traced patterns with her fingers in the dirt.

She jumped to her feet and ignored Blackwall’s chuckle.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said, “I was hoping to speak with you—”

“Ahhh, I’m so sorry, I really can’t,” Brynn said, already backing out of the side door of the barn, “I promised Sera that I would help her with…things. Urgent things. See you later, Commander!”

Instead of taking a walk around the fortress with Cullen, like the walks they had taken around Haven’s lake late into the night, she clumsily brushed the Inquisition’s horses in the stable. She even tried to sneak carrots and sugar cubes to them when Dennet wasn’t paying attention. But the horses were a poor substitution for Cullen’s company, and she found that her mind always wandered back to kind brown eyes and quiet, stilted conversations full of unsure pauses but a warmth that made the coldest Ferelden nights bearable.

It was remarkable, really, the little ways that Cullen had managed to be a large part of her life without her realizing it.

So was not knowing if he felt the same way about her really worse than this awkwardness? At least if she talked to him, she’d be able to stand in the same room with him without repeating _not in Kirkwall_ approximately fifteen times.

What was she so afraid of? That she’d lose his respect? His good opinion? The friendship they had built up between them? She remembered the way he’d placed a cloak around her when she was freezing, the way the seemed to run into one another, the way she ran to him for his valued opinion and advice. How often had they argued, fought, and disagreed with one another? How many times had she stuck her foot in her mouth around him? But they would always return to talking to one another.

She thought how her heart had stopped in the dark future when she realized he what he had suffered. She thought to the way that Cullen told her that he trusted her. She remembered the way the stubble of his face itched her palm when she’d said good-bye to him in Haven.

No, she needed to tell him. She couldn’t stand avoiding him much longer. It _hurt_ her. It made her chest tighten and her throat constrict and surely explaining to him that she thought fondly of him would be better than this jagged pain.

The walk to Cullen’s tower was one of the longer one’s she had taken in her life. Telling him her feelings paled in comparison to staring at the Breach for the first time, but the way she felt sick to her stomach made her think that she was actually more nervous now.

When she had arrived at one of the doors to his tower, Brynn took one last gulp of fresh air, and let it fill her lungs. “Okay,” she said to herself finally.

She knocked softly on the door. She wasn’t even sure she had knocked loudly enough for anyone to hear, but Cullen opened the door right away. Had he been waiting for her? Did he _suspect_? Is that why he had tried to talk to her the past few days?

“Inquisitor,” he said softly.

It didn’t matter.

She smiled at Cullen, warm and genuine. “I’m still not used to that title,” she said. “May I come in?”

“You needn’t ask for an invitation,” he said, stepping aside, but he left his arm outstretched, keeping the door open for her. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

 _Not in Kirkwall, not in Kirkwall, not in Kirkwall_.

Brynn’s heart shuddered. “I—I needed to talk to you too,” Brynn said, trying to still her mind. She looked around the office for a place to sit, but found none. His desk was covered in papers, and the chair that he had set up was piled high with books.

Cullen walked towards the window behind his desk, and stared out of it. Brynn watched him close his eyes, and breathe in the same night air that she had been breathing in before. “Would you like to speak first?” He asked her.

Brynn perched on the very edge of his desk. She tucked one of her legs neatly under her, and used the other to balance herself. It felt good to sit down. She felt a little less shaky, a little less nervous. “Well, um.” She tried to tuck the hair that had come loose from her braids behind her ears, but it was difficult with bandaged hands. “How do I start? Over the past few months, I like to think we’ve become friends at the very least, and I’ve noticed you and—”

“Ah, so you know. Or you’ve guessed as much,” he said gravely. “As leader of the Inquisition,” he started, and then sighed deeply. “As leader, you…there’s something I must tell you.”

Cullen turned around and placed his hands on the desk. It was only then that Brynn noticed a familiar box open in the center, surrounded by neat piles of papers and stacks of books. Familiar, because she had heard her uncles, her cousins, her _brother_ speak of it before. It was small, squared like a little coffin, and lined in velvet that gently cradled a vial.

It was the box that contained a Templar’s lyrium.

But why would Cullen have it out, sitting on his desk?

“You’re being especially serious today,” Brynn tried to joke, mind spinning.

Cullen didn’t smile or laugh. “I know.”

This wasn’t going to be good. Any thoughts of confessing her feelings…well, they vanished when he started his next sentence with the word lyrium.

“Lyrium grants Templars our abilities,” Cullen said. Brynn nodded. “But it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer. Some go mad, others die.” Seeing the concern on her face, he added, “We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here.”

Brynn didn’t care about the Templars here. Well, she did, but she cared more about the Templar in front of her. Ex-Templar. Whatever, she cared about him, that was the point. She watched Cullen’s hands turn white from his grip on his desk.

“But I—” he looked at Brynn, straight in to her ice colored eyes, “I no longer take it.”

The breath was stolen from her lungs.He had stopped taking lyrium. He had _stopped_. But he had said himself that those without lyrium could go mad. They could die. They at least suffered greatly. “You _stopped_?”

“When I joined the Inquisition,” he explained. “It’s been months now.”

Her hands shook. It wasn’t from nerves. Cullen had been going through this for _months_ and she had no idea. She hadn’t even suspected. She didn’t even know anything was wrong. While she had been selfishly worried about the Breach, while she had been cradling her hand that hurt occasionally, while she had complained about all the health poultices she smeared on wounds after battle, he had been in Haven, alone, suffering. Hurting.

“Cullen,” Brynn said sharply, “If this could kill you—”

“It hasn’t yet,” he replied wryly, looking at her. Brynn didn’t smile. She didn’t share the sentiment. He could _die_ from this.

She wanted to jump on him, to shake him, to demand why he would do such an absolutely crazy thing. Instead, she settled for asking breathlessly, “Why?”

“After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn’t.” He stood up straight, no longer hunched over his desk. His face was set in grim determination. “I will not be bound to the Order or that life any longer.”

All the times she had teased him about being a Templar, all the times he had emphasized he was an _ex-Templar,_ she had just thought he was making a simple distinction. She hadn’t imagined that Cullen had been paying penance the whole time, proving to himself that he was no longer beholden to that life.

What a dolt she was.

“Brynn.” His voice forced her tear her eyes away from the little case that held his lyrium. “Whatever the suffering, I will accept it. But I would not put you—” he stopped, and shook his head. “I will not put the _Inquisition_ at risk. I’ve asked Cassandra to…watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty.”

Brynn didn’t care. She knew that her chief responsibility as Inquisitor should have been the Inquisition, but all she cared right now was, “Are you in pain?”  
  
“I can endure it,” he said without feeling.

Yes, _that_ was encouraging. Brynn chewed her bottom lip. She had never heard of a Templar voluntarily quitting lyrium. She’d heard of them being cut off before, but never someone who had just walked away.

How could this possibly be a good idea?

But if Cassandra knew, if Cassandra was allowing it, was it okay? Surely Cassandra, a Seeker, knew far more about this then she did. Still, worry gnawed at her.

She glanced at Cullen and found that he was staring back at her. Watching her. He studied her face closely, waiting for her response.

Brynn trusted Cassandra. It was Cullen’s decision. She had to hold onto those two thoughts, or else the worry in her stomach would surely make her sick. “Cassandra takes things as seriously as you do,” Brynn said. She tried to make her voice sound light, tried to make it sound like she was teasing him, but she knew she wasn’t doing the best job. “If she has no problem with this, neither do I.”

He ran his hands over the edge of the desk, his eyes back on the box that glowed blue “I thought you had the right to know.” He added, in a voice much lower, much less soft than the one he usually used around her, “Should anything happen, I will defer to Cassandra’s judgment. The Inquisition must always take priority.”

Brynn nodded, and slid off of Cullen’s desk. She took a step towards the door, intent on leaving, before he called after her, “Wasn’t there something you wished to tell me?”

“I—it can wait,” Brynn said. She straightened her shoulders, and tried to smile at him confidentially. The way he looked at her, though, made her feel like he knew she was acting. “Really, Cullen, it wasn’t that important, anyway.”

The Inquisition must always take priority. _Cullen_ took priority. He and his safety and his value to the Inquisition were far more important than her foolish, girlish feelings. She could not stand idly by while Cullen was in the next tower over, stubbornly suffering silently.

The first thing Brynn did, after taking the stairs to her room two at a time, was push the bow schematics she’d been working on off of her desk. She let them flutter to the floor as she grabbed her quill and a fresh piece of parchment. She sat down, and began trying to recall everything her brother Liam—her brother closest to her in age—had said about lyrium.

Liam had said that his first draught of lyrium has tasted like the coolest glass of water, like it had been taken straight from a half-frozen over river near their homestead. He had said that the power that he felt when the lyrium slipped down his throat had been overwhelming. He said it made him feel like Andraste’s sacred warrior, and that nothing placed on this world could stop him. He said he felt like the Maker had chosen him for this path.

Brynn sighed and rubbed her eyes. None of this was helping; she didn’t need to know what it felt like to take it, just how to help if someone _stopped_ taking it.

She racked her brain, trying to remember any snippet of conversation with her brother. They both had spent so much time talking excitedly about their paths—his as a Templar and hers as a Chantry sister. But they both had avoided talking about the downsides. The loneliness she would endure and the sacrifice he would bear.

She remembered once that he said taking lyrium was like fire, that it warmed his very soul. He said once, when he had been late to begin his patrol, they had cut his ration. He had said he’d had the worst headache of his life, and that his hands had been cold, like he had stuck them in a mound of snow without gloves on.

He said that that night, he had nightmares. She’d asked about what—she was maybe a _little_ noisy after all—but he had refused to say.

Brynn scribbled the words ‘headaches’ and ‘cold’ and ‘nightmares’ in her scratchy handwriting that only she could read.

After two hours of puzzling, she still had nothing but those three words.

Brynn shrugged on her cloak, folded up the parchment that her notes were written on, and walked purposefully to the bottom floor of the rookery. It was starting to get late; she needed to work fast.

She found Solas in his usual spot. His feet were on his desk, and he was lounging against the back of his chair, a book in hand. She’d never seen the elf look so relaxed before. He looked regal; like a bored prince, and not her barefoot elven friend.

He turned his head when he saw her approach, and greeted, “Inquisitor.”

“I have a favor to ask you,” Brynn said. She realized she sounded nervous, so she cleared her throat.

“You know I am at the Inquisition’s disposal.”

“It’s not for the Inquisition,” Brynn said, coming around to the front of his desk. “It’s a favor for me.”

Solas frowned. “How may I help you?”

“Do you—” She gulped, and pulled her notes out of her pocket. Nightmares was written in shaky handwriting. “Do you know about any spells or wards or herbs or anything that can help someone when they travel in the Fade? Ease their nightmares?”

“Do your nightmares trouble you, Inquisitor?” Solas asked her.

Brynn considered telling him the truth. She considered telling him that she was trying to help Cullen. But she didn’t know how much Cullen had shared with the rest of the Inquisition, so instead she nodded mutely, feeling guilt rise in her for lying to Solas.

“In my travels, I’ve heard of some amulets that may help,” Solas said, carefully. “It will require a few days of research at minimum. Longer to even locate such an artifact, if any still exist.”

“Thank you,” Brynn said and grabbed Solas’s hands. She gave them a squeeze. He looked at her in surprise. “Thank you. Anything you can come up with will help.”

It was a start. Next, Brynn found Varric.

“You’ve said red lyrium sings,” Brynn said. “Do you know if regular lyrium sings too?”

Varric looked up from the parchments he had been writing on. “Are you asking me because I’m a dwarf?”

“Yes—no—well, a little, yes,” Brynn said sheepishly. “I do realize that you’re not exactly the paragon of Dwarf-y-ness, but you’re all I’ve got.”  
  
“You can say that again,” Varric laughed. He leaned back in his chair, and rubbed a hand across his chin. “I know raw lyrium sings. That’s how the miners find the shit.”

“How much would it cost to store our lyrium in one of the storage containers that the dwarves use?” Brynn asked.

“The bribe to get one of the Houses to sell one to us or the cost of the actual container?” Varric asked. “Because I don’t know if even the Inquisition would have enough money for that. _If_ you managed to convince a dwarf to sell you one.”  
  
“Oh,” Brynn said, disappointed.

“Processed lyrium doesn’t sing as loudly as raw lyrium. Neither one is as loud as red lyrium,” Varric said. He frowned at her. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Brynn said quickly, and hurried off in the direction of Josephine’s office before the perceptive dwarf could ask her any more questions.

It hadn’t been difficult to convince Josephine to move the lyrium supply from the holding near the front gates to one of the basements on the opposite side of Skyhold. All Brynn had to do was mention that she was concerned with its location. She was surprised how easy it had been—she didn’t even have to mention that it was also near Cullen’s office. Brynn didn’t know if it sang to him like raw or red lyrium would, but if this little thing helped him, it was worth it.

Brynn headed towards the garden next. She wasn’t much of an herbalist. She was passable at health potions, but she was better at mixing together the grenades Sera had showed her. But she was still a scout—and any good scout knew that Elfroot healed almost anything, and Dragonthron made those effects more potent. Perhaps she could put together some kind of tea for Cullen.

Elfroot wouldn’t be too hard, but Dragonthorn wasn’t something she had abundance of.

“I think we can find some Dragonthorn,” Elan said, and Brynn was grateful that she had to speak with her and not Adan. If she had been asking Adan, the alchemist would have drilled her with a million questions on why she needed such a rare plant. “Though it doesn’t grow naturally in this climate. It will take a while to locate a plant; and longer to cultivate it.”

“If you could find some, I would appreciate it,” Brynn said, and the elf nodded. It was unusual for people to accept Brynn’s requests—in Ostwick, she had kept to herself, and never asked after others. She supposed being Inquisitor had some perks to it.

The next part—something to help the cold hands—would have to wait. It wasn’t something that Brynn could work on while her own hands were still bandaged.

Skyhold was beginning to wind down for the night at this point. She could see the sun sinking behind the Frostback Mountains. She still had time to look for some books in the library, and after that she would talk with Cassandra. Maybe it was silly, but if any of it would help Cullen it was worth it.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s the Inquisitor?” Cullen asked as he walked in to the War Room the next morning. He was uncharacteristically late—late enough that even by now Brynn should have been present.

“Cassandra said that she required some rest,” Josephine said, looking up from the notes she had been taking.

“She hasn’t stopped since we left Haven,” Leliana said. “I thought we could spare her one morning. Don’t you agree, Commander?”

“I—yes. Of course.” He rubbed the back of his neck. It was true; their Inquisitor hadn’t had a moments rest, but it gnawed at him that she hadn’t come to their war meeting after he’d confessed his lyrium addition. At the time, he had thought she had taken the news well. Had he been wrong?

When he left the War Council room, Cassandra was waiting for him in Josephine’s office. “Walk with me,” she ordered. Cullen nodded mutely. Cassandra led him up a few flights of stairs, to battlements overlooking the gardens. From here, he was sure that no one could hear them.

“You told her,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. “About the lyrium.”

“Yes,” Cullen answered. “Why do you ask? She wasn’t at the meeting this morning. Is she all right?” Cassandra gave him a knowing look, and he spat, “I’m allowed to be concerned about her. I’m one of her advisors.”

“And _I_ am _exhausted_ ,” Cassandra said crossly. “She— _she_ , if you will believe it, awoke me before dawn. I don’t think I have ever been questioned so relentlessly on Templars and lyrium.”

“Why would she ask you?” Cullen said, confused. “I told her that I could endure the pain.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes at him. “You can ‘endure the pain’? Is this what you told her? I have walked with her halfway across Orlais and Ferelden, watched her track down all the red lyrium deposits in the area for Varric, and drag a dozen useless artifacts back to camp for Blackwall simply because they all _asked_ her to.” Cassandra sighed loudly. “What did you _think_ she would do when you told her the dangers of lyrium withdrawal?”

Well. Well, when Cassandra put it like that, it did seem like perhaps he hadn’t told Brynn in the most effective way. But he had wanted to be honest with her and had wanted her to know, since she was the Inquisitor. Since she was his friend. _Only_ his friend, Cullen reminded himself sternly.

“Don’t smile like that,” Cassandra barked.

Cullen ignored the Seeker, and said firmly, “She deserved to know what might happen.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Cassandra said, stifling a yawn. “And I am glad you told her,” Cassandra admitted. “She—ah, well, I am glad you told her.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Cullen asked her.

“It’s not my place to say,” Cassandra replied, although he noticed a small smile on her lips. “But I believe any person who seems so concerned for another must care about them deeply.”

 _Of course_ he cared about Brynn. He hoped that much was obvious.

Throughout the day, Cullen wondered just how many people Brynn had asked about Templars and lyrium, and how many more suspected what he was enduring. Cassandra knew. But did Dorian as well? The Mage had been glancing at him across the table all during dinner.

“What?” he finally growled at Dorian.

“Oh, just trying to decide if our Inquisitor has spoken to you at all,” Dorian said casually.  
  
“ _Dorian_ ,” Cullen warned.

“ _Cullen_ ,” Dorian mocked.

Cullen glanced at his food. He wasn’t very hungry, and he was not in the mood for Dorian’s teasing. “Nothing,” he sighed. He had an enormous amount of work left in his tower. Perhaps he should forgo his evening meal and start on the pile of paperwork. He was resolved to do just that until he caught sight of Brynn entering the hall.

He settled back in his chair. Perhaps he would wait a little longer to get to work. He could endure Dorian’s loud snickering for a _few_ moments at least.

“Darling,” he heard Vivienne said, gesturing Brynn over. “You look _awful_. And those bandages. There must be something that these Healers can do. Perhaps I should contact one of my acquaintances in Val Royeaux?”

“They’re getting better,” Brynn insisted, glancing around the hall at the open seats. Vivienne made a skeptical sound and began to lecture Brynn, but she wasn’t paying attention.

No, instead, she had fixed her gaze on Cullen and he was unable to look away.

There were dark bags under her eyes, just as he was sure there was under his. Her skin was pale, and it reflected the candlelight in the hall. Her eyes were squinted in concern. A small, sick part of him hoped it was concern for him. Hadn’t Cassandra said that she was worried?

What surprised Cullen, though, was her mouth. He had expected her to be biting her lips in worry, or frowning at him. Instead, though, there was a small, strange smile. It looked like…pride? Like admiration? Why was she staring at him like that? He didn’t deserve it.

“Heart beats fast, quickened blood,” Cole said next to Cullen. Cullen’s eyes darted to Brynn. She was walking towards them, head tilted to the side, and Cole murmured, “Colors and promises. How to be brave? How am I to be brave?”

“Hi, Cole, Dorian,” Brynn greeted. She nodded to the seat open next to Cullen. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“No!” Cullen said. “Of course not!”

Dorian smirked. “I thought you had to get work?”

“I can spare a _few_ moments,” Cullen added to the Mage through gritted teeth.

“Good,” Brynn said, “Because Bull gave me some advice on how to make my reports to you and the other advisors more informative, and I wanted to ask your opinion before I started writing since I _know_ you tend to be so picky and particular about—”

“Watching you alone, all alone,” Cole said wistfully, “All doubts fade away.”

“—so, really, I would rather get your opinion before I waste half a dozen pieces of parchment since Josephine gets _so cross_ with me when I waste _Inquisition resources_ ,” Brynn continued. There was a faint blush on her cheeks.

He smiled. “Of course, my lady.”

“Great—but first I am starving because my trainer this afternoon insisted—”

Neither one noticed Dorian slowly move to sit next to Bull, or how he dragged Cole with him, as the two quietly chatted on all the things they hadn’t mentioned to one another the past week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cole thoughts are from song lyrics - I absolutely cannot take credit for them. The first set is from Stray Italian Greyhound by Vienna Tang. The second set of Cole thoughts are from A Thousand Years by Christina Perri.


	13. Chapter 13

Brynn fidgeted in her chair.

This was the part that she hated.

The healer began to untuck the bandages that covered her hands. He tutted softly at the dirt on the outside, at the way his carefully folded fabric had begun to come loose at the ends. Brynn tried her hardest not the squirm under his fingers. She tried her best to not make a face.

He tugged away the soiled bandages, pulling them from the tendered flesh. She bit the inside of her cheek. It was sharp, _distracting_ sort of pain that muffled the burning feeling in her fingertips.

“This is good,” the healer murmured. “It’s good you can feel this.”

She let out a hollow laugh caught somewhere between an exhale and a choke. The healer reached into a container of sick looking paste that smelled like sour and roots, rubbed it between his hands, and massaged it into Brynn’s fingers.

The balm felt cooling. It eased the burn. She closed her eyes and let her shoulders relax a little.

“Done.”

Brynn opened her eyes and stared down at her reddened fingers. “What—what about the bandages?”  
  
The healer smiled at her. “They have served their purpose. The wounds have closed.”

“So,” Brynn said carefully, leaning forward, “So-so I’m healed?”

“I didn’t say _that_ ,” he interrupted. “Your skin is still fragile. Tender. And you’ll find that your hands have stiffened. I would not recommend pushing yourself—”

Brynn had already bolted out of the mage tower, bounding over the courtyard, headed as fast as she could to where her advisors met.

_Healed_. Her hands were _healed_. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on her bow. It had been _weeks_ now since she had felt the supple wood in her palms, the sharp sting of the bowstring against her forearm, the rush of air past her ear when she let the arrow fly.

And _traveling_. If she could fight she could get out of this damned castle. A damned castle that was gorgeous and a fortress and honestly it was really great apart from the fact that she had been _stuck_ here for far too long.

“Off to see _your Commander_?”

_Dorian_.

His words shouldn’t have bothered her. They shouldn’t have. Dorian shouldn’t have been able to make her so quickly, so _easily_ embarrassed. Brynn was certainly no stranger to teasing. In fact, she thought, she _usually_ could give just as much as she received.

She had _perfected_ the way her eldest brother’s voice used to crack around a girl he liked, and it had offered her and her two other brothers endless hours of entertainment. When Brandon fumbled over his bow and turned bright red every time their instructor gave him a compliment, she and her rest of her brothers hadn’t bothered to hide their smirks. And when Liam had talked about _being bathed in the glory of Andraste_ (since, really, that was all Liam ever talked about), they all would burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

Her brothers had given back in turn. When Brynn sulked around the corners of their castle every time their mother dressed her in an elaborate gown, they would tease her and drag her out into the open. When a knight passed her a rose during the Grand Tourney, for _weeks_ afterwards they had made a show of tossing every weed, wilted flower, and branch her way.

No, Brynn was certainly not a stranger to teasing.

But Dorian? Dorian was on a _completely_ different level.

He was far more subtle than Brynn or her brothers had ever been. Sometimes she _almost_ thought that it was her imagination that he was teasing her. Like now. What he had said was _technically_ true—she would see Cullen. But he had murmured _your Commander_. He had raised his dark eyebrows just so, and the smile on his face became more smug the longer that Brynn stared at him.

No, she was definitely being teased. She wished she could come up with a good reply. But instead, she stood there staring up at the man in the rotunda, and murmured a half-hearted, “Well, yes. But also Leliana and Josephine.”

Maybe it embarrassed her so easily, maybe it _bothered_ her so much, because unlike the flower the knight had given her, there was a _truth_ behind this teasing.

“Ah, one of your lovely meetings then,” Dorian said. “Try not to keep this one too long. Cullen and I have a _meeting_ scheduled.”

Brynn laughed. “The Commander is never late for anything.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “I wish that was _remotely_ true,” he murmured darkly, already returning to his books.

It was a quick jog from the rotunda to the hall and Josephine’s office. Brynn skidded into Josephine’s door, and spotting her spymaster and ambassador, she started to say, breathless and smiling, “I have the best news!”

“Inquisitor,” Josephine said, looking up from her pile of papers. “We were not expecting you.”

Leliana stood up taller, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is there a reason why you’re early?”

“Yes,” Brynn said, waving her hands. “As I said, I have _the best news_. I’ve just met with the Healer, and _he_ says that my hands are completely better--”

Leliana frowned. “That’s certainly not what I was told.”

“No,” Josephine agreed. “Neither was I.”

Perhaps convincing her advisors that she was fully healed would be a bit more difficult than Brynn had anticipated.

 

* * *

 

 

“That was an accident!” Cullen heard Brynn yell outside as an arrow thudded against the door of his office.

He sighed deeply, and put his head in his hands. His fingers massaged his temples, but did nothing to ease the throb. It was late and he had work to do and he was tired and _why_ did she _insist_ on trampling into his life, half welcomed distraction and half unneeded interruption to what the Inquisition was trying to accomplish?

He felt as though his thoughts had been consumed by her. For how long, he was no longer sure. He wished he could say that it was only worry for her that haunted him—what she was doing how she was healing, if she actually would grab a horse and take off for a few hours as Josephine and Leliana feared.

But, really, between his headaches, his thoughts of her were…softer. More supple. Remembering her hands. Her smile. How she felt when he held her warm body close.

In those moments, paperwork piled around him, headache digging into his skull, it took what was left of his much needed willpower to concentrate on _enduring_. On being a good commander, a good leader. The Inquisition did not need for him to jump across the war table and stroke the Inquisitors hair and ask how she was and not to worry for him and-and— _no_. That was not what was needed. That was not his place.

His place was at his desk. _Working_. But she was here again, outside his office door.

It was harder each day to ignore her and the rush of warmth and softness he felt around her.

She banged on his door. “Cullen? I know you’re awake—I can see the candle light!” He stood up from his desk.

He supposed there was no ignoring her at this point.

Cullen pulled open the door of his office, and she tumbled inside. He went to catch her, and to his great surprise, she _let_ him. He had thought that she would jump away from his touch, like she had in Haven, but instead she beamed up at him and said, “Nice catch, Commander.”

Cullen cleared his throat and let his hands drop to his side. He didn’t want to stare at her. Instead, he looked at the arrow wedged in one of his office doors. He faced her, a wry smile on his face, and said, “You could have knocked.”

“That would be far too normal for us,” she drawled. She cleared his throat and quickly amended, “For me. Too normal. For me. Because I’m…the Inquisitor and I need to make all sorts of grand entrances?” She offered.

Despite his headache, he laughed at his—at this archer in front of him.

“It was an accident,” she admitted. She flailed her arms in a wide gesture, as though that would convey her point, and Cullen smiled wider. She glowered at him like she always did when he was laughing at her, but he could tell by the way her eyes lit up hopefully that she enjoyed it too. “I was aiming for the wall. See? I set up a target.”

He peered outside of the door, and saw that she had dragged one of the training dummies to the left of his door. “And you’re admitting that you missed?” He asked.

“I’m a little out of practice,” she confessed, holding up her hands.

He should have lectured her on how her Healers would disapprove. He should have told her off for trying to use her hands when they still needed time. Instead, he was filled with sadness and pity for the archer in front of him. But two weeks ago, she would have shown off her hands proudly. He remembered how her voice shined when she had talked about the hours of work and practice she had put in to building up the callouses on her hands, just so that she could aim well enough to hit her targets.

He hadn’t noticed he had been staring at her, because when she reached out and touched his arm with her finger tips, it startled him.

“If I don’t practice,” she said softly, the sorrow that filled her voice making him pause, “I won’t be able to defend myself.…I’ll be a burden on the others when we leave Skyhold. I want to go to Crestwood as soon as I possibly can, to talk to the Warden there. I need to prepare.”

Cullen looked around and noticed the empty quiver, the arrows strewn around them. The floor was littered with them. He glanced at the target she had been using, and saw that there were only a few arrow lodged in it, and none of them deeply.

“Don’t tell anyone. _Please_?” she said in a desperate whisper, drawing his attention back to her. “Josephine told me I shouldn’t practice in front of others. She said it would be bad for morale, and we can’t afford any of the visiting dignitaries to know that their Hera—their Inquisitors can’t even hold a bow properly any more.”

Cullen knew that feeling. He knew what it was like to have a talent stripped from a person. He had spent countless nights studying to take his Templar vows. He had been determined that if he was going to become a Templar, he was going to be the best Templar he could possibly be. But now, after Kirkwall, and without lyrium, he no longer had that identity to cling to.

He wondered if it was the same for Brynn. She was no longer going to join the Chantry, and now she couldn’t hold a bow. At least he could still hold a sword.

Cullen nodded firmly. He wouldn’t share this with Leliana or Josephine. No, he would help in what little way he could. He kneeled down before her, and began picking up Brynn’s blunted arrows.

“What are you doing?” She asked, surprised. She leaned down to his level, and when she did, her hand accidentally brushed his hair for a moment. The touch made him stop, like electricity had shot up through his spine.

He looked away sharply, darting away from her. “There won’t be another patrol by for at least another hour. It’ll take you fifteen minutes to run down to the armory to get more blunted arrows; we’ll just reuse these,” he said, picking up the last arrow on the floor, and standing up.

“We?” She asked.

When he looked up to meet her eyes, her strong features no longer showed surprise. She was gazing softly at him. Cullen watched her arched eyebrows quirk. She blinked at him mutely with her strange, empty-colored eyes. Maybe others would critique her nose that wasn’t completely straight, her eyes that were deep set and heavy lidded, or her bottom lip that was constantly swollen. But to him, she just…looked like _her_. She looked like Brynn. Always. Whether staring at a map in frustration, or rushing across a battlefield without thought to her own safety, she always looked like herself. Genuine. Open. Kind, even.

A smile tugged at his lips. Maker’s breath, he thought she was—well. He didn’t know what he thought she was. But he wanted to look at her longer.

She averted her eyes when she noticed he was staring, but Cullen didn’t do the same. She took the arrows out of his hands and placed them carefully inside the worn quiver behind her back. She leaned down, and picked up her bow that had been laid on the floor, the wood polished from where her hands gripped it.

A blush began to appear on her neck, and continued to her face. Cullen thought that he should look away. He needed to stop staring at her. But he didn’t want to.

She turned away from him, and lifted up her bow. He watched as she grabbed an arrow from her quiver. But when she went to notch it against the bow string, her fingers faltered, and she dropped the arrow.

The sound awoke him from his stare. Her nose was wrinkled, and her lips pursed. Ever determined though, she reached in to her quiver again, pulled out another arrow, went to notch it—and again, the arrow came tumbling out of her now-clumsy fingers.

A strangled cry of frustration broke from her throat.

“Let me,” he said suddenly, picking up the two arrows on the ground. He strode over to her. She was avoiding his eyes. “Lady Trevelyan,” he said firmly, but still, she wouldn’t look at him. “Brynn,” he breathed.

“I know it’s pathetic,” she said finally. She flexed her fingers and let out barely audible hiss of pain. Cullen could see raw red skin where she had been holding her bow. Only a few weeks ago, the tips of her fingers had been almost blackened.  
  
“It’s not pathetic,” he promised fiercely. An idea suddenly struck him, and he moved to stand closer to her. “Let me help you.”

“Help me?” She asked. She frowned at the bow in her hands. Or was she frowning because he was standing too close? “But you use a sword and shield. Have you ever even _held_ a bow before?”

“No,” Cullen admitted. He reached in to her quiver and plucked out one of her arrows. “But I can help you hold the arrow steady. It seems as though you don’t have a problem drawing the string back.”

She chewed her bottom lip, and then nodded. He noticed that a smirk had appeared on her face. “You do realize that this will require you to stand _next_ to me?”

He rolled his eyes at her. “Please. I think I can bear the excitement.”

He positioned his body behind her, and felt her pull her bow up in to the correct spot. Standing behind her like this, he was overwhelmed by her smell. He was surprised. It wasn’t what he would have imagined. She smelt like leather, lavender, and snow. He didn’t know how someone could smell like snow, but there was that clean, cold sort of feeling around her, and when he thought of her, it seemed to fit

“Sorry,” she murmured hastily when her hips bumped against his when she drew up her bow. He cleared his throat. “Can you—” she nodded to her quiver.

He pulled out one of the blunted arrows, and passed it to her. “Can you help me hold it?” She asked quietly. Almost shyly. Her voice sounded breathless like she couldn’t fill her lungs with air. Were her ribs still bruised from breaking them in Haven? Is that why she couldn’t breathe?

Cullen knew why _he_ couldn’t breathe right now. She held the edge of the arrow in her hands, and he placed his hand over hers to help her steady it. “Draw,” she murmured, and he felt her muscled arms pull the bowstring back, fully extending it. He didn’t use any of his strength, and was only helping her steady the arrow.

“Hold your breath,” she told Cullen.

Cullen already was.

“Exhale,” she told him, and he could feel her back relax against him. “And let go.”

Cullen heard the sound of the training dummy being hit by the arrow, but he didn’t care.

Panic was rising in him.

He couldn’t do this. It was too…too everything. He felt raw and unprotected. He had no control over the situation, over his mind. He couldn’t think clearly with her scent around him, with her standing so close he could feel every breath she took. When she told him to exhale, to let go, he _wanted_ to. He wanted to stop thinking about the Inquisition, about lyrium, and just stand here with her, as _himself_. As a whole person. As a young man would stand next to a girl he liked.

But he wasn’t some young man. And she wasn’t just a girl. She was the Inquisitor and he was an ex-Templar who had gone through two Rights of Annulment and still was haunted by the memories of them. There was no way that she could want that. He wasn’t even sure he _could_ offer her that.

“I must go,” he said, taking a step back so quickly that he almost tripped over his own feet. “I have—reports. To do. To write. Review. Now.”

She spun around, some of her hair spilling out of her braids. He saw…hurt? Confusion? One of those emotions in her eyes. He didn’t want to stare long enough to decipher, or else he felt he would never leave. “You’ve still got another forty-five minutes before the next patrol comes by. If you need privacy.”

“Cullen, wait—” he could hear her call after him. “Please, I—”

“I must go,” he said sternly, not bothering to look back, not bothering to look at her. He walked through his open office door and shut it firmly behind him. He latched it closed.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of important notes.
> 
> First - raexmell on tumblr made some lovely art for Cullen and Brynn when they are in the Chantry back in Haven. I've added a link to chapter five, but here's [a link](http://raexmell.tumblr.com/post/125041189227/pterodactyldropss-commission-of-cullen-and-her) conveniently for you. Check it out; her art is absolutely lovely and it was great working with her. 
> 
> Second - the beginning of this chapter features Cullen and a desire demon. There is intimacy, it's NSFW, but I don't think it's smut. I do NOT believe this is goes as far as dubcon, but I wanted to give everyone a heads up who might be uncomfortable/have triggers.
> 
> Lastly - I don't think I've mentioned this before, but I have [a tumblr](http://pterodactyldrops.tumblr.com/). Please feel free to drop me a line, prompt me, talk, or just generally spazz out about Dragon Age at any time. :D
> 
> FINALLY, thanks for sticking with this story so far. All the comments, kudos, and views mean the world to me. <3

Some nights, sleep came to Cullen easily.

On those nights, his mind would be full. When he closed his eyes, he would only see numbers, diagrams, and words on parchment. His thoughts would spin with requisition orders and field reports. There would be no room for his mind to wander. There would be no room for twisted memories to shape his dreams. On those nights, the cool air in his loft was enough to relax his body, to soothe the burning he felt in his blood, to chill the ache that rested in his head, and he would _sleep_.

Tonight was not one of those nights.

Tonight, after he rushed into his office, his chest rising and falling, his pulse hard, his breath coming short, he sat at his desk. He sat instead of stood because his knees felt too weak, his heart felt too quickened, and he _read_. He poured over rotations. He studied maps. He did all he could to fill his mind to the brim, to push out anything but the thought of the Inquisition.

Perhaps it was foolish. Perhaps he should have tried emptying his mind, clearing it, instead of filling it to the brim. But this had helped in Kirkwall. Surely it would help now. It was, after all, one of the only ways he knew how to avoid the inevitable nightmares when he felt himself panicked, when he felt himself slipping.

The candles burned to their wick, the night began to turn pink, Cullen’s heavy eyelids closed, and that night _she_ visited him.

At first, it had started out like many of his other dreams.

He was in Kinloch hold—a cool draft from the lake filtering through the windows, steps worn down in the middle from years of use, a smooth stone wall that he leaned against, and a flickering lamp that made shadows play in the hall he monitored. Except it had been over a decade since he stood in this spot, and the scars on his face and hands were those of an older man, not the young boy from Honnleath with bright eyes and a heart of fire.

In his dreams, he patrolled the halls. And in the back of his mind, a prickle of fear began, because the worry that tonight wouldn’t be _only_ a dream gnawed at him.

It had shifted and changed so many times before.

“Cullen.” A familiar voice. Low, deep; it was spoken softly yet carried across the hall. He closed his eyes and wondered. Maybe it would only be a dream. Perhaps this would be a night when a memory was a simple remembrance.

“ _Cullen_ ,” came the voice again. Cullen could feel the stirring of air, hear the rustle of thick robes, and smell lyrium and lemon soap—the scents of the mage he had once kissed in the Circle.

“You have tried to ignore me, you have tried to avoid me,” small, slim, waifish arms encircled him, “But I’ve found you.”

He opened his eyes and was not surprised to see the face of Amell—his first charge, the first mage he watched in the Harrowing chamber, his first _infatuation_ —looking at him with half-lidded, green, almond shaped eyes. “I will always find you in the Fade, my love.”

“Just as I will find you again,” her lips brushed his ears, tickled his hair, trailed downward, “And again,” she kissed his neck greedily, sucking lightly, “And again,” she bit his chin.

Cullen found it revolting.

“You protest?” She smiled at him, all teeth and thin lips. “Your body doth say differently, my Templar.” Her tone was mocking, but Amell had _always_ been teasing. Was this her, was this a dream, or was this a demon visiting him?

Her hands snaked down the front of his Templar armor, armor that he had left in Kirkwall, and tugged at the fabric that all Templars wore around their hips.

He grabbed her hands by the wrists. _Gently_. He was trying so hard to be gentle, because if this was a dream, he did not want to wake up remembering what a brute he was. He took her wrists and tried to move them away, but she wrestled them free and snarled, “What is _this_?”

Not tonight. No, tonight he would take some semblance of control back. Tonight she wouldn’t touch him. For all of her kisses, for all of her looks, for all of the ways she pressed herself against his body, he felt no desire for her.

And if one felt no desire for a desire demon, what control did it have?

“Is it that this form no longer pleases you?” She asked, a frown gracing her face. Cullen stared silently before turning his back on her and walking away.

 _Walking away_. He could do that. Leave her behind. He couldn’t recall ever being able to before. Perhaps…perhaps no longer taking lyrium was giving him some sort of strength.

“No matter,” she called out after him. He was almost to the door when she sang, “I know you far better than you know yourself.”

“ _Cullen_?” asked a small, hesitant voice in his ear, tickling. He spun his head around, body following.

No one was there.

“Cullen,” said the voice again, and he felt strong, muscled arms reach around his back and hold him. She—he— _it_ stood behind him, burying its face in the mane of his cloak, _nuzzling_ almost. His clothes were different now—he glanced at his at his armor; it was that of what he wore today and not in the Circle ten years ago.

Its chest pressed up against him as it breathed in deeply. “Cullen,” it murmured, relief in its voice, “I’ve _found_ you.”

He turned around, but again, no one was there. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “Show yourself,” he growled.

Laughter came from further down the hall, just around the corner. It was loud, unabashed, and he had memorized it many times before. _Brynn_. But what was she doing here? Why was she in his dreams? Was it something to do with the anchor? Was she…was she _all right_?

“Can you find me?” he heard her tease. Cullen dropped his hand from his sword, looking around wildly. He caught sight of her bright blond hair just as she ran down another twisting hallway. “Come find me!” she shrieked, giggling.

He followed her, walking briskly and then _running_ , armor clanking. He could smell her. Leather, lavender, and snow. Last time he had caught her scent, he’d been standing close enough to her that he could feel the warmth from her body. He breathed in deeply.

“There you are,” he heard her say. He turned, smile on his face, and froze.

Brynn stood not ten feet in front of him, but she was not wearing her usual layers of leather and cloth and mail. No, she was clad in his fur cloak. The collar of it surrounded her face, framing her pale skin against the darkness, and a lopsided grin sat on her full lips.

“Hi,” she said.

The fabric left her arms bare. She was pale, almost white, and her arms weren’t toned. They weren’t muscled. They were slim and not at all like he remembered. But the cloak she wore trailed down the front of her, barely hiding her breasts, and she had wrapped a cord tightly around her waist. It accentuated curves he didn’t know she had, and the fabric clung to her hips in a way that should’ve been impossible.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

She swayed her hips, laughing, giggling, and teasing. The fabric moved to and fro, and he caught sight of her round bottom. The cloak slipped to the side, just off of her shoulder, revealing more of her expansive, naked skin. He made a low groan escaped from him, and he looked at the ceiling, clearing his throat.

“Or are you going to _do_ somethingabout _this_?” She laughed again, loud and unbridled.

He scratched the back of his neck, hesitating. But, Maker, that _laugh_. Surely she was only a dream, surely that laugh couldn’t be an imitation.

“Commander?”

It was the slight hesitation in her voice coupled with that wide grin that made him cross the space between them in three long strides. He felt her arms come up around him, and his trailed down her back until he could grab her hips, her ass, and lift her _up_ _against_ the wall behind her.

She giggled harder, her small body wriggling and pushing against his.

Her smell was all around him. But it wasn’t quite right. It was sweeter than what he remembered. Sickly sweet, like rotting vegetables and meat and trash. “ _Cullen_ ,” she said, drawing his attention back to her. She wiggled her hips, ground herself into his growing hardness, biting her bottom lip and staring at him.

“I need more,” she begged and pleaded. Cullen leaned down and began to kiss her neck, her collarbone, and the places on her shoulders left bare by his cloak.

“Don’t you want more of me?” She whined, nipping at his ear. “Don’t you want to _possess_ me?”

“Maker, yes,” he said, but lowered her to the ground. He withdrew his arms from her. “But we haven’t even _kissed_ before this,” he protested. The words sounded dull to even him. He cringed, struggling to explain, “I-I mean, don’t you think this is all a bit much suddenly?”

There was a flash of anger for the briefest of moments before it turned into hurt. He brought his hands up and placed them on her waist, the only part of her body other than her hands that he had ever touched before. But it didn’t feel right. Her waist was slimmer then what he remembered. He couldn’t feel the familiar muscles, the straight lines that came from months of fighting and horseback riding.

Instead, she was soft.

Why was everything off?

“Cullen,” she said clearly. “I’ve thought about this _so often_. I’ve dreamed about this _so much_.” He watched as she undid the cord around her waist, and let the fabric of his cloak part. His mouth went dry as she flattened her palm against her chest and ran it down her body before slowly dipping her fingers into herself.

She made a pleased noise, and let her sapphire eyes roll back.

 _Sapphire_. Cullen blinked. Brynn’s eyes weren’t blue. He could never decide on the color. They were gray, light, _sometimes_ blue, he wasn’t really sure. But they were never a deep, ocean color.

“Don’t you want to please me like this?” She asked, catching his attention again. She brought one of her fingers to her parted lips and sucked it gently into her mouth. She pulled the finger out, making a _popping_ noise, a hungry look in her eyes. “I want to please _you_ like this.”

“Your hands,” he said, confused. He took a step back from her. “I thought you were still injured?”

“The mages say I’m fully healed,” she replied, following him. The cloak she had been wearing pooled on the ground, and she stepped out of it.

“You could barely hold a bow earlier,” Cullen responded, taking another step back, away from her.

“Let me show you how well healed they are.” She reached forward, and grabbed him, her nails pulling at his breeches. Her nimble fingers worked on unthreading the fastenings. No hesitation, no shake. When she saw the questioning look on Cullen’s face, she kissed his chin, then bit it and murmured, “I’m _so_ eager.”

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how he imagined _this_ happening. But then he felt her small hand dip into the opening of his breeches, and he hissed loudly. She brought her body close to his. “Let me have you,” she whispered in his ear, taking his lob into her wet mouth. “Be mine.”

Her hands. They were so warm, so soft, so supple, devoid of any callouses—

“No!” He shoved the woman in front of him away. “ _No_ ,” he insisted.

He knew Brynn’s hands. He had touched them. He had memorized every mark and every scar. She had shown them off to him so many times. She was so proud of the hard work she put in to them, so proud of how they allowed her to protect others, so proud of the tough callouses. She was so proud of them that she refused to wear gloves.

His archer would not have the smooth hands of a noble, untouched by work or duty.

“Demon,” he snarled, backing away.

How had he not noticed before? How had he ignored the prickle of fear, the way the hairs stood on the back of his neck? Had he wanted _this_ that badly? Badly enough to ignore what was in front of him?

Brynn—or rather, the demon, smiled. Cold and cruel, the smirk looked out of place on Brynn’s face.

“What was wrong?” She asked, following him. It wasn’t Brynn’s walk she wore. She placed one foot directly in front of the other, hips swaying. Brynn’s walk was different—she bounded everywhere, light on her feet but careless. Never calculated. “Was the smell wrong? Her face? Her _breasts_? What was it, my Templar?”

Her hands, he thought, but he stayed silent. Her hands and so much more.

“I can do better,” she promised him. Cullen’s back connected with a wall. The desire demon that wore Brynn’s face grabbed his wrists, harsh and rough, and held them. “Tell me what you want, Commander,” she purred, and began kissing his neck.

“Oh Maker, hear my cry,” Cullen prayed, closing his eyes tightly, trying to ignore the feel and scent of Brynn—no, of the demon in front of him. “Guide me through the blackest nights—”

“Cullen,” moaned Brynn. The _demon_.

“—Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked—”

“ _Cullen_ ,” he heard her voice again, more firm this time.

“Make me to rest in the warmest of places—”

“ _Cullen_!”

 

* * *

 

Cullen’s chair clattered to the ground. He stood, scrambling away from the touch on his shoulder.

Brynn could see that his face was red and his eyes were wide. They darted around the office, searching for _something_. They found Brynn’s hand, still poised in the air where his shoulder had been moments before. He followed the length of her arm, followed it to her shoulder, up her neck, and to her face.

When his eyes met hers, he looked away.

“You weren’t at breakfast,” Brynn tried to explain. She held up both of her hands and took a small step towards him. “Nor at the War Council, so I thought to check on you—”

“ _Quiet,_ ” he hissed at her. He rubbed his hands over his face, breathing in deeply. “For a moment. _Please_.”

“I’m—” She snapped her mouth shut when his eyes narrowed at the edges. She frowned. She had only wanted to rouse him from his sleep. When she had entered his office, he had been hunched over his desk, shivering, shaking, and _praying_. “I’m… _sorry_?”

“It’s—the fault is mine,” Cullen said, voice unsteady. He cleared his throat and glanced over. “Please, do not leave on my account. I was—I had—it was an unpleasant dream,” he admitted.

Was this why he always looked so tired? Was he unable to sleep without having nightmares? Was it the lyrium withdrawal? She _hoped_ not. She hoped that he was simply avoiding her gaze because of last night. She hoped that it was something she’d done, that he felt the same _intensity_ last night that she had. She could do something about _that_.

But the lyrium withdrawals? What could she possibly do when _some went mad, others suffered greatly_? Her elfroot tea, moving the lyrium caches, it was all so _small_ compared to what he must have to contend with.

Brynn wrapped her arms around herself. She decided that holding herself wasn’t the pose an Inquisitor should adopt, so she clasped her hands behind her back instead. “I came here for two things.”

Cullen began gathering up the papers that had fallen off of his desk, devoting all of his attention on the task. “And those were?”

“First, Cassandra put aside some breakfast for you. Leliana brought it to the War Room. It’s still there if you’d like it,” Brynn said.

“Thank you,” Cullen replied stiffly.

“But wait, there’s more news!” she added with her most winning grin. Cullen didn’t return the smile. He sighed heavily, almost irritated, and certainly _weary_. “Or I could just leave,” Brynn murmured. It was unfair to expect him to laugh at her jokes, especially with…well, with _everything_ the Inquisition expected _and_ whatever he was going through with lyrium.

“Perhaps that’s a good idea,” Cullen said, face caught somewhere between a grimace and a weak smile. He grabbed a pile of reports that were stacked on his desk and began working. “I fear I am not the best company.”

Brynn pulled the worn game bag she always brought on long trips off of her shoulders. She reached inside, and pulled out the two apples she’d snatched from breakfast that morning.

It seemed stupid now to have brought them.

She’d assumed that her Commander would be his usual, stubborn self and refuse to leave his office for food. So she had thought to bring the food to him. She’d had a grand daydream of strolling into his office, two apples in hand. Cullen would lean against his bookcase, munching on his, and she would perch on the edge of his desk and bite in to the crisp fruit. He would talk about his books and work and she would ask a million questions and then babble about her own life.

They would laugh and there wouldn’t be that heavy feeling that had happened the night before. It would be a peace offering, of sorts. A way to show that she only enjoyed his company and that she hadn’t intended to cause _whatever_ she had.

Obviously, the whole idea had been foolish. He wanted to be left alone. She tried her hardest to squash the disappointment welling in her chest. She did a miserable job of it.

“Take care of yourself,” she murmured quietly to him, depositing the two apples on his desk.

She turned around to leave, letting her hand trail his desk, feeling the worn wood made warm by the sun. She liked this room, with its fireplace, books, the constant foot traffic, and her Commander. It was the room that felt most like home in all of Skyhold, and she wanted to savor it for a moment before leaving again.

She felt Cullen place his hand over hers, still holding the edge of his desk. She looked at him. He still wouldn’t meet her eyes, but he muttered quiet, low and sincere, “Thank you.”

How could those two simple words, uttered from his lips alone, cause all of the disappointment she had been feeling to disappear?

“I’ll see you when I return from Crestwood?” she asked hopefully. Brynn watched as his fingers intertwined with hers. Her mouth felt dry.

“I’m always here,” he responded, staring at their hands.

Her fingers twitched under his. “I’m going to meet Hawke’s Warden friend.”

“Be careful,” he murmured. “There’s always trouble where Hawke goes.”

“I’m used to trouble,” she quipped, smiling warmly. “In fact, ‘trouble’ would be a refreshing break from world-ending-perilous danger.”

He gave her an exasperated look. “Be careful,” he repeated.

“I will,” she said, though both knew she wouldn’t be. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before disentangling their fingers and drawing her hand back. “I’ll _try_ to be careful,” she amended, adjusting the bag over her shoulders, before leaving the room.

Cassandra pushed off of the wall outside of Cullen’s office, shield strapped to her back, small pack filled with books over one shoulder, and sword secured firmly to her hips. “Are you ready now, Inquisitor?”

Brynn nodded, walking in step with the Seeker.

“I informed Josephine and Leliana of our departure. They were, predictably, unhappy,” Cassandra told her.

Brynn clenched her hand and let it relax, trying to forget the sense of Cullen’s fingers wrapped around her own, while in the same moment rushing to _memorize_ the feeling.

Cassandra cast a look at Brynn. “You needn’t have insisted on speaking with Cullen. It is something I could have accomplished while you prepared for our journey.”

“I, um,” Brynn fiddled with the strap of her bag. “I thought—it seemed as though—” She sighed, frustrated. “Let’s just go to the others.”

“You wanted to say good-bye,” Cassandra supplied for her. It was a statement, not a question, nor a tease.

Brynn shrugged. “The Commander wasn’t at breakfast.”

Neither was Iron Bull and Dorian, and Sera was probably still at the tavern. Brynn glanced at Cassandra. The other woman stared ahead, though her lips twitched into a smile for a moment.

“Let’s just go,” Brynn repeated, picking up her pace.

She and Cassandra, Dorian and Solas spent a little bit more than two weeks in Crestwood. The ride there hadn’t been difficult. The weather was clear until they neared the village. Since then, it had rained _perpetually_. Brynn had hoped that perhaps it would let up, but the Champion of Kirkwall and the Grey Warden Alistair had assured her that it wouldn’t.

They sat close together, huddled around the fire. The tree they were under provided some relief from the rain, and the oiled leathers most of them wore kept out the worst of the damp.

Still, Dorian inched his hands closer to the fire and murmured darkly, complaining for the thousandth time, “Rain and undead. Why must it _always_ be undead?”

“The Mortalitasi complains about the undead?” Solas asked. He had been leaning back against the tree, staring out at the night sky. “ _Now_ I’ve surely seen most everything.”

“It doesn’t count if you’ve only seen it in the Fade,” Dorian drawled.

Brynn snorted, looking up from the furs she had been working on. Cassandra made a disgusted noise and slammed her book shut.

“I’m sorry,” apologized Dorian, turning to her, “Did we interrupt your smut?”

“No, I’ve finished for the night,” Cassandra said. She looked at Brynn, and tossed her the book. “Your turn,” the Seeker told her. “It’s not as exciting as the last. But I believe you’ll enjoy the main character.”

Brynn caught the book in her hands. “What makes you think that?”

“The character’s probably a Templar,” Dorian said, using his magic to make the fire burn brighter.

Brynn scowled and placed the book in her game bag. “I’ll start it tomorrow,” she grumbled before resuming her work on the furs in front of her.

“What are you making?” The Grey Warden Alistair, asked her curiously.

Hawke had immediately traveled back to Skyhold, but Warden Alistair had stayed with their party. He had said after spending so many nights on the run alone, it would’ve been nice to have some company. Brynn didn’t _dare_ protest—this was the man who had helped the Hero of Ferelden stop the last Blight. Who was she to argue with him?

“They’re gloves—”

“You call those _gloves_?” Dorian laughed. “I thought they were potholders. I thought you were going to use them to bribe the cook to give you more of those little cakes.”

“I love those little cakes,” Solas admitted.

“My needlework isn’t the best,” Brynn said, smiling ruefully at the Grey Warden. “Maybe I’ll make them dual-purpose hand-warming, pot-holding mittens.”

“Well, can you use them to pass me more of your stew?” Warden Alistair asked. Brynn spooned some of her ram meat stew in to his bowl. “Thanks—it’s been a long while since someone else has cooked for me. Sereda and I used to flip a coin to see whose horrible cooking we’d eat that night,” he laughed.

“Sereda?” Brynn asked, an excited grin forming on her face. “That’s Sereda _Aeducan_ , right? The Hero of Ferelden?”

“And also my wife, the poor, unfortunate woman,” Warden Alistair said.

“Have you been happy with her in the years since the Blight?” Brynn asked eagerly. When the Warden gave her a sharp look, she added, “You just sound _content_ when you speak of her.”

Casandra stared at the flames, but her head was tilted so she could hear the Warden over the noise of the rain.

“I’ve been happier than I dreamed possible,” Warden Alistair replied. He dipped his wooden spoon in to the bowl, and filled his mouth with more food than Brynn could imagine before swallowing without chewing. “She’s more than I deserve. And I hope I make her days easier as well.”

“That’s—” Cassandra started to say, but Dorian interrupted her.

“Romantic?” he finished.

Solas laughed quietly, and Brynn smiled. Sometimes, her companions were so predictable. “She sounds like an incredible woman. It also sounds like you miss her very much.”

“It’s hard work for us both,” Warden Alistair said. “But when I’m done here, I’ll find her. And we’ll be together again. Forever this time.”

“Well—” Brynn cleared her throat, and lifted her flask. It only had water in it, but it seemed appropriate. “To forever?” she suggested.

Warden Alistair laughed and knocked his own canteen against hers across the fire. “To forever.”

“I hope you see her again,” Cassandra said, her voice thick with emotion. Brynn looked at the older woman, staring intently into the fire. “I—it is trying, being the one left behind. I hope you see her again,” Cassandra repeated.

“I’m sorry,” Brynn said because it seemed like the right words to say.

“It is nothing,” Cassandra replied hastily. “There were many others who died in the Conclave.”

Brynn looked down at her hand with the mark embedded in it, and sighed. So many had died since then, and so many more would if she didn’t stop Corypheus. Wasn’t stopping the Elder One the most important goal for her to keep in mind? She needed to concentrate on that.

She put aside the furs she had been working on.

“I know what it’s like to awaken and find that the whole world has shifted,” Solas admitted suddenly. “I am sorry that you have experienced that, Seeker.”

“Thank you, Solas,” Cassandra said quietly.

“Perhaps,” Brynn said, shifting on the log she was sitting on. “Perhaps we should speak of something happier?”

Everyone was quiet.

Brynn heaved a sigh, but Warden Alistair dropped his spoon into his bowl and announced, “When I finally told Sereda how I felt, I was so nervous.”

Both Brynn and Cassandra inched closer.

Alistair had a small smile on his face. It made him look so much younger, made him look like the hero Brynn had heard stories about and not the traitor Warden hiding in a cave. “I had been carrying around this rose in my pocket. The poor plant was half crushed. But I held onto it, because I kept wondering how I could find something so _beautiful_ when everything else was falling apart. How I could have found _her_.”

Brynn twisted her fingers while Cassandra’s face turned warm. It was _nice_ , knowing that the Hero of Ferelden found love and was able to stay with Warden Alistair after she had saved the world. Maybe, when the Inquisition was over, she would be able to act on her feelings. Maybe if Cullen ever looked less tired, less worn down, she would be able to tell him the reasons why she brought him apples, asked for his opinions on her dreadful reports, and lingered after their war council meetings.

“I’m glad I told her before the end,” Warden Alistair continued.

Brynn looked up sharply. “Wait—what?” She sputtered. “You-you didn’t wait until it was _over_ , until you both had _won_? You told her before you defeated the Archdemon?”

“ _Before_ the Archdemon?” Warden Alistair laughed loudly. “Are you joking? You’re joking, right? I told her not even a month after I met her. It took us over a year to gather enough forces to defeat the Archdemon.”

“ _Why_?” Brynn asked, flabbergasted.

Warden Alistair frowned. “Why _what_?”

“Why did you tell her so soon?” Solas, Dorian, and Cassandra stared at her, but _surely_ Brynn was not being the unreasonable one here. “You both had a world to save. You needed to concentrate on that. You _had_ to. You knew what the risks were. If one if you had died—”

“Exactly, _we_ knew what the risks were,” Warden Alistair interjected sharply. “That’s precisely why _I_ decided to tell her. There were a dozen ways we could have died. I didn’t want to regret _not_ telling her. We didn’t have any time to waste.”

How could they not have waited? It…it couldn’t _possibly_ be all right to put personal feelings first. And what if one of them had died? Surely the kinder thing to do would have been to wait. Brynn couldn’t imagine the pain of _loving_ someone and then _losing that_.

“But—”

“She was the only bright spot in that terrible time,” Warden Alistair said. He put his bowl on the ground and fixed her with a look that Brynn almost crumbled under. _This_ was the man who helped defeat the Archdemon. “Just ask anyone who met her. It was _worth_ the risk. She is worth the risk.”

Brynn felt Dorian smack her shoulder, and he said, “I think you’re not thinking about the Hero of Ferelden and Warden Alistair anymore.” He got that annoying, _knowing_ , smug look on his face as he began to say, “I think you’re thinking about yourself and—”

“Shut it, Pavus,” Brynn said through gritted teeth. “It’s late, I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, we’re going to take out that rift, so…so…”

“ _So_?” Dorian asked.

“So _sleep well_ ,” she ground out before heading to her tent, spinning on her heels just as fast as her head seemed to be spinning.

As Brynn closed the flap of her tent, she heard Dorian laughing. Cassandra hissed at him, and then added, “I’ve told you to not _tease_ them.”


	15. Chapter 15

_Just a drop_.

Would that be enough? Would that lull him into a restless sleep? Would it allow him to lay dreamless for one night? Would it keep away the nightmares?

_Only a sip_.

It would stop his hands from shaking. It would ease the tension in his head. It would slow his thoughts. It would still the panic in his chest, the warmth in his arms and legs, the chill that ran up and down his spine.

Cullen thumbed the little bottle full of lyrium in his hands, and with a sigh that seemed to run through his whole body, he placed the vial back in its case.

He would endure. He would _always_ endure.

But….

His fingers lingered at the edge of the carefully crafted wooden box. Could one mouthful, one swallow of the thick liquid down his throat—could that truly do any harm? Cassandra had said it would set back all the progress he had made, but surely _one_ —

“Commander—”

Cullen slammed the lid of the box closed. He busied his hands with his paperwork, breathing harshly through his nose, before settling his face into its usual frown. “What is it?” he asked.

The soldier lingered at the edge of the doorway. “You had asked to be informed on the Inquisitor’s progress—”

“I know what I’ve asked,” Cullen snapped. He squared the edge of the papers against his fingertips, ensuring that they were perfectly straight. He shouldn’t lash out. He shouldn’t be short. He rubbed his temples and asked, “Do you have an update?”

The scout nodded. “The Inquisitor and her party have returned. Would you….would you like me to inform the other advisors?”

Cullen frowned. It was late evening. Leliana would certainly be awake. And Josephine would not want to be left out. “Yes.”

The soldier saluted and walked towards the door. But, just before heading out, he ducked his head at the Commander and murmured, “The Inquisitor is in the stables if you would prefer to let her know personally of the war meeting,” before dodging out too fast for Cullen to question him.

Cullen ran a hand over his mouth. He didn’t need to personally inform her. He did not need to greet her. He didn’t. And yet…

It was a short walk to the stables. His office door banged shut behind him, and he found himself skipping stairs as his feet hurried down them and towards the courtyard. If any of the soldiers noticed his brisk pace, they did not comment upon it.

When had he seen the Inquisitor last? Two weeks? Three?

Brynn hadn’t changed much in that time. It made the edge of his mouth twitch into a smile as he approached the stables.

He could just catch sight of her standing next to her plain horse. She held a coarse brush in her hands and slowly stroked the beast she always rode. She blew softly in to the horse’s nose and smiled when the horse rubbed his head against her in response. Her fingers—reddened and rough looking, he noted with a scowl—scratched the horse’s ears, and she leaned in closer and murmured how he was the most steadfast, the most wise, and the most brave horse in all Thedas.

“Are you _ready_ yet?” Cullen heard Dorian call to her deeper in the stables. “ _Venhedis_ , that horse gets more action than anyone else in Skyhold.”

“Shh,” she whispered to the horse, rubbing her face into its neck, “Don’t mind the mean Tevinter mage.” She reached into the game bag slung across her shoulder, pull a half-eaten apple out of one of the pockets, and held the snack out to the horse. Cullen closed his eyes and heard her delighted laughter.

It eased his headache. It shouldn’t have. The sound should have amplified in his mind, pierced his eardrums. It was loud, and almost obnoxious, sometimes edging on towards a shrill. Still, it was hers, and he had memorized every note.

He shouldn’t have savored the sound as he did. She was the Inquisitor, and he the Commander of her forces, and it would hardly do well to dwell on a sound that wasn’t meant for him. But leaning against the stables, her laughter dancing around him, his mind wandered from nightmares and lyrium and demons in the dark to—just for quiet, sweet moment—what _it_ would be like.

He knew his heart and stomach would still feel like they were lifting when he watched her and her companions walk through Skyhold’s gates. He would still find some excuse to greet her—like he had just now. But instead of standing further away, he pictured walking up to her as she ran towards him. She would jump the last few steps, crash into his arms, and he would stumble but _hold hold hold_ on to her.

And he would kiss her.

Maker, he would kiss her lips hard and soft and with urgency and with gentleness and all the thousands of ways he’d thought of doing so. Her hands would grab him, tickle his neck, pull at his armor, and she would laugh into his mouth, and the sound would only make him kiss her harder.

Cullen cleared his throat loudly. “Inquisitor.”

Brynn spun around, messy hair falling into her face. She looked tired. How long had she been riding for? “ _Commander_ ,” she managed to tease.

“Are we leaving or not?” Dorian asked irritably. Cullen heard Dorian grab some gear and throw it onto the ground. “If I must meet my father, I want to get it over as quickly as possible.”

Brynn rolled her eyes and turned to Cullen. “It’s, um.” She pushed her hair behind her ears. “It’s nice to see you—to be back. Crestwood was very…wet.”

Cullen cleared his throat again. “I, uh, I had only just heard you arrived,” he said hastily. “The scouts—they told me you had returned. The rest of the advisors are gathering.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dorian drawled within the stables, “Our Commander needs to debrief you urgently. I’m _sure_ Leliana and Josephine will be along shortly.”

Cullen shuffled on his feet, face feeling hot despite the cold. But Brynn spun around and narrowed her eyes at the mage, “I understand that you’re nervous, Dorian, but you don’t need to take it out on everyone else.”

“I’m not _nervous_ ,” Dorian shot back. “I don’t… _get nervous_.” He turned sharply, picking up his horse’s gear, and walked down the line of stalls to clumsily saddle his own horse.

Brynn rubbed the palms of her hands against her eyes. “Are you all right?” Cullen asked, peering at her face.

“Yes.” Brynn looked up, startled at his proximity. “It was just a _very_ long trip back from Crestwood, and now Dorian and I must leave for Redcliffe right away.” She glanced at Dorian down the line of stables, then added quietly, “I’m sorry, Cullen, I don’t think I’ll be able to attend the council meeting you’ve called. It’s important that Dorian and I leave immediately.”

“It’s…fine,” Cullen said carefully. “But is Dorian all right? Are you? Is there something I need to alert the others about?”

“I don’t think so,” Brynn said, frowning, but then she suddenly wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t even get to take a bath. I must smell like a bog.”

“No more worse than usual,” Cullen said, staring down at her.

Her fingers reached out and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He’d seen her do the same to Iron Bull and Blackwall dozens of times, but the movement seemed…softer. There was a small hesitation before her fingertips brushed his armor; a hesitation he never saw when she touched others.

“That’s not very _diplomatic_ of you to say,” she teased.

Cullen snorted. “If you want diplomacy, seek Josephine. I’m the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces.”

“Oh, you are _indeed_ ,” she laughed, eyes sparkling.

Cullen gulped. Oh, Maker, he would spend all of tomorrow’s briefing thinking about that look in her eyes. “And you’re our Inquisitor,” he said firmly.

“Does that mean I get to give _you_ orders, Commander?” She asked.

“No,” he growled. “I have far more experience than you.”

“Oh, a whole couple of years, what a wealth of knowledge,” she said, sarcastic, but Cullen noticed she had taken a step closer to him. “If you’re so experienced though, why don’t you—”

“Inquisitor!” barked Dorian. “ _Fasta vass_ , can you please delay your flirtations for _once_ so we can _leave_?”

For all the teasing that Dorian gave the Inquisitor, this was the first time Cullen had seen her turn bright red from the suggestion that she was flirting with him. Usually, she’d laugh, or agree, or tease back. Now, she swayed on her feet, leaning a little closer to him before letting herself fall back on her heels. His cheek a light pink color, and she seemed to be looking anywhere but at him.

“I needed to tell you—”

“Before I go—”

They smiled at one another. His smile started out sheepish, hers a small quirk of her lips, but soon she had a toothy grin on her face and he shared a smirk. “We do that a lot, don’t we?” Brynn asked, and Cullen’s pulse quickened at the word ‘we’.

“It would seem so,” Cullen said. Then, before she could jump in, he added, “I wanted to apologize. When you left—”

“ _Cullen_.”

She said his name so softly. He watched, her lips barely moving around his name. “When you left,” he murmured, eyes focused on her mouth. “I was not myself. The nightmares….”

He looked away from her face. He did not want to mix what he dreamed with reality. It felt like giving the desire demon some sort of power, to admit that it had been right, and also….and also he didn’t want to give his heart any more hope. If she knew how many sleepless nights he had, how the lyrium was effecting him, she would be _disappointed_. Cullen was so sure of it.

He felt her fingertips brush against the leather of his hands. He looked back at her, but she stared at the spot where her fingers touched his hand. “It’s okay,” she breathed. “I’ve had nightmares. _Everyone_ has nightmares. It’s nothing to be worried about.”

“It does not excuse my behavior,” Cullen said firmly. “It was unkind to—”

She held one of her fingers to her lips. Maker, why did he keep on doing that? Focusing on her mouth? Still, he watched the small indent her finger made, the way the sides of her mouth lifted up, and how her lips pursed together when she _shushed_ him. “No more!” she said through her fingers. “I’ll not accept an apology from you.”

He wanted to be the one touching her lips. Not her fingers. “If the lady insists,” Cullen said, voice hoarse.

“I do,” she whispered. “I do insist.”

“ _I’d like to leave for Redcliffe at some point tonight, Inquisitor!”_

She jumped at Dorian’s voice and Cullen was given a moment to breathe. “I—” She looked back at him, nodding, before tugging her worn game bag over her shoulder. “Before I go—just _one_ moment, Dorian!” Brynn shouted over her shoulder, hastily undoing one of the ties that held a pocket on her bag closed.

“If you need to leave—” Cullen began to say, but the sharp look on her face silenced him.

“I’ve got it here somewhere,” she murmured. He watched as the pulled one of Cassandra’s smutty novels, a water-damaged notebook, a pouch of herbs, and then finally, with a triumphant, “ _There_!” she extracted a small bundle of furs.

“I—well—” her face was bright red, replacing the pinkish tinge that had been there earlier, and she shoved the small bundle into Cullen’s confused hands. “It’s—it’s for you.”

He turned the two segments of fur and leather over, frowning. “Potholders?” he guessed.

Cullen could hear Dorian’s laughter from the other side of the stables.

“They’re _mittens_ ,” Brynn explained, pointedly ignoring the mage. “I-I made them. For you—for your hands. My brother said once—well—I think they might help. _With the cold_ ,” she said, giving him a significant look.

The cold?

Oh. _That_ cold. The chill, the bone deep ice that sometimes accompanied lyrium usage.

Cullen turned the gloves over in his hands, running his fingers along the stitching. He could see now how much care she had taken in binding the leather and fur together, carefully closing any gaps between the two.

He didn’t have the heart to tell her that lyrium withdrawal made him warm, so hot that he kicked his bedsheets off of him every night, never set a fire in his room, and he refused to have the hole in his roof repaired.

Brynn rocked back and forth on her feet. He watched a she clasped her hands behind her back, trying to hide the way that she pulled at her fingers nervously. “The fur is from this _huge_ fennec I caught,” she said, words tumbling out of her mouth. “You would _never_ believe how large it was. I could hardly believe it! I tracked it halfway across Crestwood. At one point, I was downwind and hiding behind this rock, and I almost lost track of it because its fur matched the landscape _so perfectly_ —”

Cullen ripped off his leather gloves and slipped the new mittens over his fingers. They looked ridiculous. The thumb portion was far too large, and when he had them on, his hands looked as though they were sandwiched between two, floppy grey pancakes. But they were the warmest things he’d ever had his hands on, and, more importantly they had been made for him.

Shehad made them for him.

“—but if you don’t like them then I can take them back. I mean, well, I can’t take them back since I _made_ them but don’t worry _at all_ if you don’t like them. I could see if there is something in Redcliffe that might fit you better or I could always ask around Val Royeaux next time I’m there—”

They were a small thing, but it was precious. These gloves—no, _she_ felt precious to him.

“ _Brynn_ ,” he interrupted her. She was looking at him nervously, wringing her hands together. She had stopped rocking on her feet, instead opting to balance precariously on the heels of her boots.

“Yes?”

“Thank you; they will help with the cold,” he said, trying to pour all of the warmth the simple gift had given him in to his voice. He looked up from his hands, and stared at her anxious face, and let the words leave his mouth before he could doubt himself. “I’ll think of you when I use them.”

“You do? I-I mean, you will?” Brynn asked.

“Of course,” he said swiftly. He took a step towards her. She wrung her hands harder. He couldn’t tell if she looked anxious or excited.

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum!”_

Brynn’s shoulders sagged. Was it relief? The tension had left the air for the moment. “I need to leave,” she told him.

“Of course,” Cullen responded, realizing belatedly that he’d spoken those same words only a moment ago. But she smiled at him all the same. Softer. Less nervous than before. This territory felt more familiar.

“I—” She glanced behind her. “I should go.”

“Yes,” Cullen agreed, although he made no move to back away from her, nor she from him.

“I hope to see you when I return,” she murmured.

Cullen ran his hand over his mouth before responding, “I will be here. Return safely—and remember to watch your left flank.”

“Yes, Commander!” Brynn responded, grinning as she made a fist over her heart and ducked her head in salute. “I’ll return soon.”

“Please do,” Cullen said earnestly.

“That’s my intent—”

“ _Seriously_? Please, let’s try to _not_ start this again.” Dorian rounded the corner and Cullen had never seen him look so perturbed before. “I’ve already saddled up your spare horse, Inquisitor; now let’s _go_.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian, Brynn decided, was infuriating.

How this was a _thank you_ , Brynn would never understand. She could endure Dorian’s teasing, but she had hoped he would listen to her. She had hoped that he would _get_ that there were bigger concerns in the world than a foolish girl and her silly crush.

Besides, it wasn’t fair to try to pursue anything with Cullen. The man was running an army. _Her_ army. They were spread halfway across Thedas, trying to stay one step ahead of a blighter Magister that had stepped out of some horror story, _and_ Cullen was going through lyrium withdrawals on top of it all.

Dorian had told her that she was being pigheaded, that the only thing silly was her refusal to acknowledge her feelings to Cullen, and maybe he was right. But Dorian being right while she stayed silent only meant heartache on her part. There were more important things to consider than her feelings. Like the whole trying to save the world thing. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she would fail. Haven had not been that long ago; the wound was still fresh for them all. Maybe always would be.

Either way, Brynn wished she hadn’t come to the gardens as Dorian told her to. Maker knew what she would have walked into if she had been _on time_. As it was, when she arrived at the gardens, Dorian was not the only present.

Cullen was there too.

_Traitor_. Infuriating, insufferable traitor.

“Gloat all you like.”

Cullen sounded carefree—no, no. That wasn’t quite right. Brynn doubted Cullen had _ever_ been anything remotely resembling carefree in his life. But he sounded…younger, perhaps. Happier. The low, gravel tone, the slightly hoarse voice from tiredness, it wasn’t there. It had melted away, leaving behind a warm sound that made the tips of her toes and fingers tingle.

“I have this one.”

“Are you sassing me, Commander? I didn’t know you had it in you.”

It felt…it felt _good_ to hear his voice like this.

“What do I even— _Inquisitor_.”

She had lingered too long. His voice changed—shifted from the warm tone to the more formal one that she tried to mimic when they were around one another.

He stood from his chair, like a gentleman. Like some nobleman. But Cullen was none of these. She stared at him, curious. It was only her. Why would he act so formal? So controlled?

“Leaving, are you?” Dorian asked. Dorian was up to something. Brynn knew. She could tell. Dorian was _always_ up to something. “Does this mean I win?”

Cullen glowered at the mage, and Brynn found herself giggling. Laughing, even, when Cullen turned his glare on her.

“Are you two playing nice?” she teased, arms folded across her chest.

“I’m _always_ nice,” drawled Dorian.

Brynn tried to catch Cullen’s eyes, to share an exasperated look with him, but he stared at the chessboard intently.

“You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory,” Dorian added, “You’ll feel much better.”

Brynn didn’t think so. Not with that look on Cullen’s face. She knew Cullen’s smug smile from anywhere. She had first seen it in Haven. Maybe two weeks—three, even—after she had tried to close the Breach for the first time. He wore the same look now that he had the first time she’d conceded that _perhaps_ he was correct. She didn’t even remember what they had been arguing about. Some course of action, some little marker on the war table. The content escaped her. But she remembered his grin. Remembered that smug smile. Remembered his _smirk_.

At the time, it had driven her insane. The triumphant slant of his eyes. She hated that she had lost. Now, she felt like his smirk was driving her insane for a completely different reason.

“Really?” Cullen carefully picked up one of his pieces and placed it on the board. He leaned back in his chair, chuckling. “Because I just won and I feel fine.”

Dorian threw up his hands. Brynn wasn’t sure what happened—other than the fact that Cullen had won—yet, Dorian did not seem too upset. “Don’t get smug,” Dorian said, standing up, leaving his chair open. “There will be no living with you.”

Brynn swore Dorian gave her a wink as he left. Or had it been directed towards Cullen? _No_. Definitely her. Surely her. There was no reason for him to _wink_ at Cullen.

There was a moment—a beat, really—where Brynn stood there awkwardly. Her shoulders hunched over, arms crossed, she said in her mind _relax, take a seat, do something_ yet she just stood there staring at Cullen.

“I should return to my duties as well,” he said, and Brynn nodded. Yes. Of course. Their duties. His duties as a Commander, her duties as the Inquisitor, only to ever cross in the War Room and not in the stables where she had laughed and flirted and _Andraste save her helpless ass_ how did she keep falling into this pattern?

“Unless you would care for a game?”  
  
Brynn couldn’t have moved into Dorian’s vacant chair fast enough. She tilted her chin upwards, looked down at her nose in a way that she hoped was challenging, and said clearly, “Prepare the board, _Commander.”_

Cullen’s knee bounced on the ground, shaking the table. Brynn fidgeted, constantly tucking her legs underneath her, only to adjust every few minutes and almost knock over the board in the process. They hardly met each other’s eyes—but they spoke softly. Clearly.

“As a child, I played this with my sister,” Cullen said. Brynn looked up from the board she’d been trying to focus on. He hadn’t spoken of his family before. Then again, Brynn realized, she hadn’t really spoken of hers even though she thought of them often. “She would get this stuck-up grin whenever she won—”

“Can’t imagine where you get _yours_ from,” Brynn murmured.

“—Which was _all_ the time,” he laughed. “The look on her face when I finally won…”

She tried to imagine a young boy, no scar on his face, blond hair tousled, playing chess. It was…difficult. Cullen’s cheeks had hollowed since the months she’d met him, the circles under his eyes were darker. He looked paler. Sometimes, she saw his hands shake, as if from hunger or being tired, though she often wondered if it was the lyrium.

But, when he grinned at her from across the chess table, Brynn could almost see it. She could almost see the boy he must have been.

“Between serving the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years.” Cullen thumbed one of the chess pieces in his hands before settling it on the board. “I wonder if she still plays.”

“If you had asked me three months ago, I would have said that I’ve seen my brothers far too often,” Brynn admitted. She moved one of her pieces, careful to avoid knocking all the others over with her clumsy fingers. “Now…” She shrugged, and asked quickly, eager to change the subject, “How many siblings do you have?”

“Two sisters and a brother,” Cullen replied. “And you?”

“Three older brothers.”

“Ah, I should have realized you were the youngest,” Cullen remarked.

Brynn rolled her eyes at him, but couldn’t help the grin on her face. “Where’s your family now?”

Cullen paused. He didn’t answer immediately. Was it was because he was concentrating on the game? Brynn certainly couldn’t. Her mind focused and latched onto each one of his words. “They moved to South Reach after the Blight.”

“ _The Blight_ ,” Brynn repeated slowly. “It never really reached Ostwick. To us, it was just some rumor. The Teyrn—erm, that’s the leader of Ostwick—all he did was complain about the refugees. We didn’t see many of them, though. The Trevelyan estate isn’t in the city.”

“I wish I could claim that the Blight was a far off possibility for us—for Ferelden,” Cullen said gravely. “Most of us lost family during it.”

_Did you_? She wanted to ask. But she didn’t. Her family would’ve been proud of her biting her tongue. Instead, she settled for, “Do you speak to your family often?”

“I do not write them as often as I should,” he admitted. “Ah, it’s my turn.”

“You’re about to relive those childhood defeats,” Brynn said, staring up at him. “This game is mine.”

“Is it now?” He teased back. She caught sight of a lopsided smile on his face, the one that made his scar twitch upwards, and something deep inside of her stomach do backflips. “May I inquire further about your family?”

She wasn’t sure to other members of the Inquisition asking after her personal life. But there was a silly thought that ran wild in her mind that she would answer _any_ question Cullen ever asked her. “What would you like to know?”

“You said you had older brothers. Where are they now?”

“They’re—” Brynn frowned. “Well, before the Conclave, my eldest brother was at home in Ostwick. Jonathan—my second older brother—was there too. Always have to have at least _one_ spare Trevelyan around. I swear it should be our motto or something,” she laughed. “But usually he was at my Aunt and Uncle’s, helping with their affairs. I was going to travel, so…so that’s why he was there.”

“And your other brother?” Cullen asked.

“Liam?” Brynn stared at her side of the board. “He’s not much older than me. He’s a, uh,” her eyes flickered to Cullen’s guiltily, “He’s a Templar.”

“Ah,” he remarked quietly.

Brynn readjusted her legs, shifting nervously in her seat. “He’d been at Ostwick Circle last I heard.”

“Last you heard?”

“I’d already been traveling to the Conclave across the Waking Sea as an Ostwick representative by time he’d left,” Brynn explained. “It was supposed to be my _last great duty to the Trevelyan Family_ —or something like that—before taking Chantry vows.” She laughed, trying to cover up the worry gnawing at her stomach. “Which obviously did not turn out as planned.”

Cullen hadn’t placed his chess piece yet. “You were _that_ close to taking your vows?”  
  
“Yes,” Brynn frowned at him. “Why does everyone find it so difficult to believe I’d be a Chantry Sister?”

“Because—well—you’re—” He sighed, frustrated. “Because you’re _you_ ,” he finished.

She shook her head, loose strands of hair falling in her face. “What does that even mean?”

“Most Chantry Sisters I met were…quiet. Reserved. They didn’t ask as many questions. Even Leliana is a little like that, though she can pick locks like you.” Brynn’s face had split into a large grin at the compliment, and it seemed to give Cullen some sort of encouragement, because he added, “And I don’t remember most Sisters looking quite like how you look.”

She raised her eyebrows at that, and opened her mouth to ask for clarification, but before she could get the words out, Cullen said, “And I’ve never seen a Sister as skilled at a bow as you are.”

She should have gloated. She should have had some joke on the edge of her tongue. Something to tease him back with. But she always felt flustered when Cullen admitted that she was good at something—and to be good at archery, something she treasured, something she practiced day and night—felt too _good_ to discount.

“And,” he continued, “I’ve never seen a Sister read the Randy Dowager as many times as you have.”

“Hey!” She really did swat him with her hand this time. “It’s not just _one_ Randy Dowager. It’s a whole series, you know!”

“Mmhm,” Cullen replied, moving one of his pieces forward. “A whole series I believe you’ve read.”

“That’s hardly true,” Brynn argued. “I haven’t read even most of it. I’ve only barely glanced at what Cassandra has _forced_ upon me. You _know_ how she is.”

Cullen laughed with her. “Yes, I do.”

This was…nice. To laugh around him. To laugh together. To forget, for a moment, what they had to accomplish outside of the walls of Skyhold.

“You know,” Cullen murmured, looking pointedly at the chess board, “This may be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition or related matters. To be honest—” he fixed her with a stare, warm brown eyes making her face feel hot, “I appreciate the distraction.”

“We should spend more time together,” Brynn burst out eagerly, _immediately_ , unable to hold back her enthusiasm.

His grin didn’t become wider. If anything, it settled into something quieter. A small quirk of his lips. A softer edge to his eyes. “I would like that.”

“Me too,” Brynn said, any smoothness, any confidence, gone from her voice. She stumbled through her feelings, her earnest desire to spend as much time as she could with him making her voice hitch and become excited, despite her attempts to stay professional.

“You said that,” Cullen whispered.

_That’s because I double-y want to spend time with you_ , Brynn thought, and surely it was only by the grace of Andraste that she managed to keep _that_ particular reply inside of her.

“We should—” Cullen paused, and Brynn sat on the edge of her seat, wondering what he was about to suggest.

Whatever it was, she would have to say no. Whatever feelings that were rushing through her, she had to remember that he was the Commander and she was the Inquisitor and there wasn’t _any_ possible way that whatever fancy he might feel for her, whatever deep, pounding feeling she felt in her chest for him, they couldn’t ignore their roles. Their duties. She was an adult. She could keep herself in check. So what if his smirk made her stomach flipflop? So what if almost all of her dreams were filled with images of him? She could wait. She could wait to say something until after—until after—

“We should finish our game. Right?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she agreed immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 x five million to all of you. You are the best. And happy Halloween!


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